


With Healing On Its Wings

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Series: The Pacemakers [3]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Accidents, Affectionate Insults, Awkward Conversations, Banter, Bars and Pubs, Bitterness, Circus Performers, Communication Failure, Cultural References, Death Threats, Domestic Fluff, Double Life, Dubious Science, Embarrassment, Emotional Baggage, Epic Battles, Grief/Mourning, Hope vs. Despair, Introspection, Kidnapping, Major Character Injury, Medical Procedures, Morning Routines, Multi, Prayer, Pre-Earth Transformers, Rescue Missions, Restlessness, Reunions, Torture, Tragedy, Transformer Sparklings, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 00:11:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 51,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6134803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Among Minibots, it's traditional that a group of five or six will form a "pace", adopting each other as kin and swearing an oath to remain that way as long as they're functioning.</p><p>With two other Minibots having accepted him, despite his past, Brawn is finally starting to trust this new life of his, but trust is not contentment. As much as he wants to ignore it, he's starting to suspect that there's going to be another intrusion...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place a few years after [Joy In All Circumstances](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5731045/chapters/13206283), so I suggest reading that first if you get confused. :)
> 
> Pace - A company or herd of mules; in my headcanon, a family of Minibots; also a traditional expectation and an honor among Minibots who form one.
> 
> One - the first Minibot to agree to join the proposer's pace; Sequein - the second to agree to join; Trilitare - the third to agree to join.
> 
> Culumexian - the form of Cybertronian spoken by residents of Culumex, the Minibot city on Cybertron, or the residents themselves.

Brawn came online gradually, wondering if he really was where and more importantly _when_ he believed. Blinking a few times, he turned over and slid an arm under his helm, staring at the back of the mech on the other recharge slab, whose systems were still steadily purring; he obviously hadn’t stirred yet. For a minute or two he considered waking Huffer so they could talk and then decided against it. Best let him recharge for another breem before they had to work.

He went through this process almost like clockwork each morning—come online, consider asking for some company, decide against it…From there he had two options: go out to enjoy some sunlight or make breakfast for himself, Huffer, and Gears.

Decided, Brawn rose and crept into the nearby kitchen, fishing out some JaAm, silicon wafers and a knife. They needed a good breakfast; this past quintun, Gears and Huffer had been alternating who would make breakfast and while Brawn appreciated their efforts, he privately considered his the best. It ought to be, what with his rank. It was his job to take care of them and he would start the day with that.

While Gears’ moods might fluctuate, his meals were predictable as blinking. He’d present them with Garbage O’s, cyber-grapefruit, and occasionally—every _great_ once in a while—some plain wheel-nuts. Huffer was a bit more creative, but his creativity was in the presentation, not the content. He bought the creative things others had already made that were stocked in the market like rust-spiced blitzes or circuitmon rolls. He decorated them however he saw fit and Brawn enjoyed anticipating whatever he would come up with, but Huffer and Gears willingly admitted they looked forward to his turns.

Brawn made the food with his own hands, preferring to buy the materials and then put them together in his own home. It felt…Slag, he _hated_ to use an oversentimental word like ‘therapeutic’, but that’s what it was. It reminded him that he had something more than himself to think about. It was what he was living for and he would never dream of trading this for the life he’d had before. That old life wasn’t even a life; it was just…functioning, holding onto a past he hadn’t even liked. His spark was already starting to twist as he thought of it, so he turned his thoughts away from that.

It _couldn’t_ have been three vorns since this pace began! He still remembered how awkward and unsure he and Huffer had been, not knowing what they were getting into. It was unpleasant to think of how oblivious he’d been to his friend’s feelings that he was untrusted and taken for granted, but Brawn of the present could always remind himself of how much they’d grown just in this time.

Huffer wasn’t so vocal about his needs, which Brawn could take as encouraging because it meant most of his needs were likely being filled. He seemed to be needing comfort less and less, not as invested in any talks about feelings, and that was a sign that he was getting more independent. Brawn didn’t mind that. Their first several diuns had been very emotional and now they had finally found a routine that apparently had them both settled. If asked, Brawn would say that his bond with his One wasn’t like others. Honestly, if he went by how ‘normal’ pace-leaders interacted with their Ones sometimes, his relationship with Huffer seemed better. Brawn twitched a small smile in lieu of laughing as he worked on the wafers, thinking of the time Huffer had admitted he admired him, when they weren’t _quite_ out of the celebration of starting a pace but near enough to recognize they couldn’t be like this all the time. Huffer seemed like he’d needed to say a few things before it would feel uncomfortable.

“I know I can overthink things,” Huffer had started out, “so steel yourself just in case. I don’t think this’ll be too needy, but I wanted to say I hope it’s…um, I hope it’s clear how much I appreciate everything you’ve done.” At Brawn’s blank look, Huffer shrugged shyly. “You’re a good leader, despite or because of everything, and I know I can trust you to stay that way. You’re…my Amica Endura and I really look up to you.” These last words had been a bit rushed and Huffer cringed as soon as they were out of his mouth, wiping his hands over his face and muttering, “Great. That sounds embarrassing.”

Brawn had kept his pride at this confession deep in his spark where it could be warm and private, deflecting the compliment by thanking him and calling him what was referred to simply as ‘the title’.

“Well, Amica Endurae are the ones who understand and don’t mind embarrassing spark-to-sparks, little One.”

That got him hissing and sputtering and Brawn had simply laughed, trying to hug him and predictably getting shoved away.

“Frag it, Brawn! That needs to stop!”

“Aww, don’t _you_ understand embarrassing, Amica Endura?” Brawn pleaded with a spark of mischief, composing himself when he earned a glare that might not just have been annoyance and going after him for a legitimate hug, partly out of apology.

It was ridiculously easy to rile Huffer up and that was why Brawn avoided it so carefully, wary of going too far and hurting him. Huffer wasn’t to be underestimated—his supply of unusual comebacks made that clear—but he _was_ the little One and Brawn was, by Huffer’s own admission, the hero. He wanted it to stay that way.

Gears had been a bit harder, if that was believable. When he’d first taken Brawn and Huffer in as his employees—well, Brawn shuddered to think of how utterly happy he’d been. He was disturbingly happy because of his programming, but his circuit card had changed that entirely and Brawn didn’t miss the happy Gears at all because what he witnessed now was _real_.

Most of the time his **sequein** was ill-tempered and it was obvious in the way he complained. For the first five diuns, before he had agreed to Brawn’s proposal and become official, it had appeared to Brawn and Huffer that he wanted to make up for all the vorns that he’d been a happy-go-lucky slave by being contrary to absolutely everything.

When he was given a separate room, he remarked on how drafty it was. When he went out and Brawn wanted to go with him, he called him clingy. When Huffer moved his things, Gears said he was flighty. Those diuns had been hard, mostly because they had been trying to help lighten up some aspects of his grief.

Only a short time before he’d put in the circuit card and had a complete system overhaul, he’d discovered that his creators had been lost and no one had bothered to tell him. The grief and the newfound need for control had made him act out and Brawn and Huffer had taken the brunt of it because he had accepted them when no one else would.

Brawn scoffed lightly when he recalled the first time Gears had gotten up the courage to punch him. It had been incredibly powerful, not that Brawn had expected less, but he hadn’t targeted one of the more vulnerable areas like the face, which would’ve been kinder to both of them. He’d gone at the chest and out of respect for the sacrifice of his hand, Brawn had shifted back a step or two. Gears sank onto the floor, anger draining away into the pain that had driven it.

Crouching in front of him, Brawn had taken his hand and studied the dents he’d just inflicted on himself. “Better hope you don’t do that again,” he commented evenly. “Or you won’t be able to work.” Gears hadn’t been working at the time, but the message was clear enough. The next strike with the hand that was intact had been his mouth and Brawn had rolled out of his crouch onto his aft, spitting energon and grinning wickedly.

“That’s it, little buddy! If you wanted to be spiteful, you could go for the optics!”

Huffer had come home from the market to find Gears wildly swinging and Brawn goading him on, privately hoping that it would help him expel some more chaos, and Brawn could say he hadn’t been expecting his One to react the way he had, dropping all the groceries and wrestling both of them to the floor, shouting in their faces that they were irresponsible and that no good pace ever started out like this.

“I haven’t even said I’d be part of your pace yet! Stop acting like I already am!” Gears shot back. It was a great final word as he scrambled out from under them and stormed off to his room like an indignant sparkling. Of all things, they hadn’t expected him to slink back out a mere ten minutes later and ask forgiveness, but cautiously they’d given it and they tried to operate as they had before that had happened. In a way, that was how Gears had come to complain; in lieu of his fists, that was how he expelled any emotion he didn’t care for.

That had been one of the extreme cases, but even he had settled down in these past vorns and he was officially the second pace-mate now. Brawn didn’t tend to trust what he said at face value, trying to look beyond it. It seemed that somewhere deep down Gears was content, otherwise he would have rejected the proposal and/or removed the circuit card so he could feel that horrible, forced pleasure again.

No sane bot would ever want that inflicted on them again, so Brawn didn’t blame him for choosing the kindlier option.

Their employer, Hightop, had once used Gears as his right hand, but since Gears had requested a smaller job, it had almost seemed like he treated them better than before. He treated them more like regular mechs at the very least, without prejudice _or_ bias, and that was how they liked it. Huffer was rising in the ranks of the engineers and Brawn was already chief demolitionist. Gears worked materials now instead of overseeing the entire site, so he went back and forth between the workplace and the warehouse.

After moving on from the science center, they’d built a cluster of houses and complexes, expanding the borders of their sector, and it was the first project during which Brawn could say the other members of the team didn’t literally try to kill him. Because of his past, they had been quite proactive in that area until he and Huffer had boldly proved their bond was just as permanent and real as anyone else’s. The others had been too shocked to do anything and they seemed to realize the pointlessness of it now.

Since then they hadn’t made any friends, but their household now had three mechs instead of two, which benefitted the rest of their situation. One of their proudest purchases was the comm. unit that sat against the right wall in the front room, just past Huffer and Brawn’s recharge slabs, which they planned on replacing once they could afford real berths to be installed.

The comm. unit took up the expanse of the table they’d recently bought, but Gears said it was worth eating on their laps if Huffer would stop agonizing whenever they went out. Huffer had responded that since they would be getting the privilege of warm oil in the wash-racks, maybe Gears would stop whining about how the cold locked up his systems. Sure enough, Gears had taken a very long wash that day, shouting to them about how nice it was until they couldn’t stand it, Huffer easily picking the lock and Brawn leading the charge to bodily pull their pace-mate out. It had ended…messily, but at least their armor and the washroom walls got a nice polish.

Not only did the pay have benefits, the work itself did too. Brawn could focus on how he displayed himself to his pace-mates. Work and its integrity was a large part of a pace’s relationship and he did hope his work process impressed them as much as theirs fascinated him.

Gears worked briskly, almost in a rush but not shoddily; he was serious about getting it done the right way right away. Huffer was much more fluid in his process, slow to create but quick to correct because he wanted it done perfectly the first time. Brawn was neither of those things; he was steady in his process and if there was a mistake or two he bent them to the specifications however he needed to.

There were minor problems with their lifestyle, with their differences, but nothing they couldn’t overcome. Brawn’s main concern was in himself. As he’d been watching his friends, he’d also been straying. He would catch himself studying others, wondering if he should try pursuing something and if they would even entertain his presence, and then he would immediately feel guilty for it. _Still a young pace and already you’re not content. Get over yourself, focus on who you have now! It’s just the three of us and for now it’s supposed to be!_

The problem with that was that Brawn wasn’t sure he had ever heard of an Unraveler gaining a new pace. Was it a consequence of being used to a bigger pace? Was it him just being overly acquisitive? Was he still adjusting, not quite trusting in this good new life? He wasn’t sure he wanted or even needed a **trilitare** …but he just couldn’t shake the feeling that a bot was going to come along, whether they liked it or not.

Brawn was brought out of his thoughts by a groan and a muttered “It’s too early…” and he smiled slightly, hurrying to finish spreading the JaAm over the wafers before Huffer managed to force himself upright. By the sound of it, that wasn’t an immediate danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for all of the exposition, but it was necessary. Think of this chapter as a prologue of sorts! :)


	2. Chapter 2

_It’s a great turnout for this one. Hopefully ’Cin got the creators to give their permission for the finale…_

Windcharger mingled easily enough with the crowd, filing into the arena and taking a seat reserved for him just set back from the arena itself. He had already missed most of the show but had arrived just in time to return with the intermission crowd. Leaning his arms on the railing, Windcharger let his optics wander as everyone took their seats, smiling wryly when he saw the radiant holoposters that had no doubt attracted them:

**_The High-Octane Flyers_ **

**_“We can teach even a sparkling to fly!”_ **

Flying Culumexians were rarer than Unravelers and just as much a spectacle among the grounders, so Windcharger wasn’t too surprised to see many audience members scoffing and grumbling to the beaming members of their pace who had begged them to come along. The young pace next to him in particular was entertaining.

“C’mon, haven’t you enjoyed this so far? Can you _believe_ these bots?! Flyers, of all things!”

“I guess it’s been okay, but I’d probably enjoy my berth a bit more. Don’t forget who has to work in the morning.”

“Ugh, if you want to recharge and it means you won’t be ill-tempered during the finale, I’m all for that!”

His smile widening, Windcharger glanced in the direction of the staging area and caught the optic of the femme in the troupe, peeking out from behind the wide tarp that served as a curtain and fiddling with the clamps over her shoulders. Boomerang paused in her ministrations long enough to wink and Windcharger waved in return before lifting a finger to his lips, signaling her not to look straight at him. Message received, she turned her attention to the sparkling who sat nearby, who squealed eagerly back.

The braam that signaled the continuation of the show sounded low and long, the vibrations rumbling all the conversation of the onlookers to a hush. It was quiet enough that Windcharger and everyone else could hear the whine of turbines powering and then the tarp was thrown aside by a blur of red, black and gold. Windcharger straightened in his seat, lifting a hand over his optics against the strobe lights to see the Airmaster of the troupe: Incinerator. As soon as the crowd recognized him, they burst into applause and he inclined his helm graciously to accept it, folding his wide, powerful wings so he would fall slightly lower in the air.

“I suspect those of you who have returned have liked what you’ve seen?” he questioned, spreading out his arms expectantly and gracefully making a full circle to address all present. He was answered with an approving roar and he nodded again. “Good, good. We’re here to entertain, of course. Some of you may think we can’t top the performances we’ve made, yes?”

Windcharger winced a little at an especially loud cry of agreement from the mech who sat with his pace nearby, earning hissed urges to shut his manifold mouth. Of course Windcharger could expect reactions like that. The first time he’d been witness to them, he’d been indignant, but Incinerator had taken him aside and told him there would never be full satisfaction from every bot in Culumex. It had been hard for him to accept, but Incinerator had leaned down, catching his optics, and he spoke clearly.

“Charger. Sometimes a mech needs to practice delayed gratification. We’re working on it, aren’t we?”

Windcharger returned his attention to his friend just in time to watch the turbines fixed to Incinerator’s wings charge further, reaching a high-pitched whine almost out of hearing range. “Introducing to you again,” the Airmaster boomed, “my pace, my troupe: The High-Octane Flyers! Kiln, Boomerang, Highstake!”

Windcharger felt his spark stir as Incinerator’s turbines blasted like twin cannons. Hardly a nanoklik after the signal went off, Kiln sprinted onto the scene, a wash of blue and black and silver, throwing out his arms with just as much flair as Incinerator.

 _It runs in the family_ , Windcharger reminded himself, chuckling at the pair of them. Incinerator rose further up and to the side where he would be out of the way, folding his arms with pride clear in his bearing. Kiln hadn’t stopped moving, leaping and kicking off rails with surprising agility for one of their kind. It wasn’t an unusual sight for Incinerator to be showing off moves in the air and expecting his younger brother to imitate him on the ground. Kiln was capable of it too, as he was showing now.

After the sixth flip off the rail, Kiln crouched, leveling his arms out and retracting the plating of his forearms, swiveling out several power nozzles in one fluid motion. From somewhere behind him, Windcharger heard a latecomer exclaim, “Why does he have rocket launchers?!”

 _Oh, you’ll see, madam_ , Windcharger thought to himself as their only femme, Boomerang, sped onto the scene, her jetpack creating the sweet smell of burning fuel as she made a beeline for Kiln’s left side. On Kiln’s right and the audience’s left, Highstake hurtled to meet the femme’s speed, thrusters in his feet allowing him to dash through the air as though it were solid underneath him.

Windcharger leaned further forward, contracting his vents and holding them. “Five, four, three, two…” he whispered, and the two flyers made contact with Kiln at precisely the same time, tearing him upward into the air by his shoulders. In his wake sailed thick streams of liquid nitrogen from the nozzles on his arms, assembling as something akin to a slope which grew higher and froze in place as they lifted him.

Just before they reached a height too precarious for what they were building, Boomerang and Highstake shared a look and released Kiln onto his frozen slope. He poured oil onto the slide before him, slicking its surface and following the spiral all the way down, not even stumbling from his dizzy ride as he rose from the bottom, not even stopping to bow as he turned his launchers to the air, blasting fountains of the oil upward. Boomerang and Highstake moved to intercept, twirling through it and using the heat of their power sources to create bursts of flame.

Windcharger couldn’t help but join the astonished cheer that followed as the femme and her partner let themselves drift down to Kiln’s sides and the three took a united bow. Before he exited, Kiln aimed an acid at the liquid nitrogen, melting it from its pose and clearing the area.

The crowd tensed in anticipation as a hollow braam—almost mournful but more bittersweet—sounded, preceding the finale. Incinerator returned to the center, lifting a hand to the hopeful cheering.

“We have but one act left, friends!” he announced briefly, surprising them by bodily turning to face the curtain himself. “Strain! Will you grace us with your presence?”

It was an accurate way of placing the question, Windcharger decided, not for the first time. When Strain emerged into the bright lights, it was indeed a grace to be in his presence. Unlike most Culumexians, he was tall and almost slender enough to appear half-Culumexian and half-Praxian. He approached the center of the arena with ease, easily accepting the puzzled, calculating looks he was receiving. His voice was unnatural too, melodic, almost like he was singing the words he spoke.

“Thank you all very much for coming,” he addressed the crowd politely. “We hope and do believe you’ve enjoyed. From your reactions tonight, I’m not sure we could be mistaken about that.” At the murmurs of agreement, he rewarded them with a small smile. “However, there’s one last thing we promised.”

Windcharger could feel the confusion mounting and the whispers, questioning each other as to what that could be, and he unfolded his arms, laying his hands carefully on his knees and briefly shuttering his optics, paying attention to Strain’s following words.

“We’re The High-Octane Flyers,” he repeated, and though Windcharger had his optics closed, he knew Strain was gesturing to the holoposters adorning the walls, “and when you came, you didn’t know it, but you were banking on one thing.” There was a climactic pause. Windcharger opened his optics just in time to see a flick of movement by Strain’s shoulder joints as he spread them higher and concluded, “We’re going to teach a sparkling to fly.”

Whatever the crowd had expected, Windcharger knew it _never_ would have been this. With the hiss, clank, and chugging of unlocking gears, Strain’s arms burst from their sockets, unraveling far out from his body and rising above the crowd. Nowhere in their people’s history had a Culumexian had an augmentation to extend limbs and not even his abnormal frame-type could have warned them. There were gasps of shock and even horror as hundreds of optics watched the hands hover over them, the coiling of his arms snaking out behind them.

Windcharger had always thought that, depending on the reaction of the crowd, this next part could be risky, but as he’d gotten into practice with this he’d come to trust Strain with life. He had to, for no sooner had the audience digested this foreign augmentation did the hands dive into their midst and pluck a sparkling out of the crowd, drawing him away from his creators. Windcharger glanced cautiously at the pair, relieved to see that they had wide optics but were smiling, which meant Incinerator had indeed gotten their permission for this.

No one else was paying attention to that; when a sparkling was in potential threat, there were no boundaries, and this one was rising higher and higher into the air. Nearly the entire crowd had now leapt to their feet, shouting in various degrees of anger or alarm, and the little one just beamed as he ‘flew’ out of their reach. Strain tilted him slightly, enough that they could smile at each other—and then he opened his hands.

The sparkling squealed in a combination of terror and glee as he fell and Windcharger was moving. He drew no attention to himself, casually stretching out an arm and spreading his fingers. Before any of the more gallant mechs of the crowd could spring to save the lad, he froze in midair, giggling in delight and waving. All optics centered on Windcharger, balanced on the top bar of the railing, magnetism thrumming around him and causing any magnetic objects nearby to rattle. Gently he drew the sparkling in and over the gaping crowd, setting him back in his waiting carrier’s arms.

Incinerator recaptured the attention of the onlookers, crying, “For your finale, femmes and gentlemechs, Strain and Windcharger!”

Windcharger vaulted off of the railing into the ring as Strain retracted his arms, appearing to have returned to his normal-yet-not state. Strain gave him an approving glance and Windcharger grinned in return before they swept low bows. There was a nanoklik of silence and then, as everyone was already on their feet, they were rewarded a standing ovation.


	3. Chapter 3

Huffer was certainly not a morning mech. He could hear Brawn working in the kitchen and that stirred a bit of his hopes about breakfast, but he knew if he stayed still for a minute or so he would go right back into recharge. He did seriously consider it for about thirty kliks and then flailed, kicking off his thermal tarp and using the corner of the table against the wall to pull himself up.

“Remind me why we get up this early?” he called pleadingly, to which Brawn chuckled.

“Silicon wafers with JaAm, _that’s_ why!”

Perking up a little, Huffer blinked several times and shuffled toward the kitchen to get a peek at these wafers, but Brawn must have heard him coming, as his back blocked the view of the food. Huffer made a face as Brawn started humming innocently, trying to seem engrossed in his work.

“I know you better than that, Brawn,” he scolded, leaning against the doorframe.

“Course you do,” his leader agreed, waving one hand distractedly and flinging JaAm from his fingers. Huffer didn’t know if he was being sarcastic in that agreement or not, but he didn’t have time to find out before Gears appeared without a word, pushed past him into the kitchen, snagged a wafer from the counter and stuffed it in his mouth before striding back down the hall toward the washroom.

“Hey!” Huffer burst out belatedly, moving closer and poking Brawn’s back. “How come he gets to see the wafers—and _eat_ them!—and I don’t?” Without waiting for an answer to this question, he tried to snake a hand around the taller mech and found it batted back with a warning tsk.

“Ah-ah! They’re not done yet.”

“But Gears—”

“He got lucky,” Brawn scoffed, unwilling to admit defeat even after the fact. “You’re not jealous of him, are you?”

Huffer faltered, unsure of how to answer that question. He knew what Brawn meant, of course, but if he really considered how he had been feeling over these past several diuns, could he honestly answer in the negative?

Leveling his tone, he knocked two fingers against Brawn’s arm, questioning, “How are you?” It seemed a good way to start a conversation, if only Brawn would reciprocate.

“Well, I want to get these wafers done!”

Why couldn’t Brawn give him a legitimate answer? Just this once? “I’m serious,” Huffer insisted. “How are you? You know what today is and I want to make sure you’re fine.”

Brawn gave him a sideways glance and then shrugged mildly. “It’s hard to believe it’s already been three vorns.”

 _Finally!_ Huffer nodded vigorously, hopping up onto the counter and ignoring the skeptical look he received for it. “Yeah, but it’s been…worth it, hasn’t it?”

Brawn’s optics narrowed in puzzlement as he stacked the wafers in several small heaps on their three plates. “Worth what? Everything’s been nice.”

Perhaps on the basic level, it had been, Huffer mused, swinging his feet back and forth so he would have something to look at instead of his friend. Right now, not for the first time, he couldn’t help but get the feeling that he was overthinking, but it was one of the things he was best at. _Generally_ these vorns had been nice, but not in the way he’d hoped. Their financial situation had improved and he would take anything over what he’d endured before Brawn had found him, but now that the newly-paced bliss had worn off, Huffer wasn’t sure he liked the ‘normal’ state they had invented.

The first vorn had been particularly hard, not only because of Gears’ fits and Brawn’s fatigue, but his own anxiety. He’d suffered several panic attacks when they weren’t within sight or at the least hearing range, and his mates only knew about some of them, but fortunately that small amount had been enough to get their attention.

He hadn’t seen the first one coming; it had been something as simple as Brawn and Gears making a trip to the street market while he tidied up, but it was only when he realized that he was alone in the silence that his fingers had gone numb and his knees weak.

One of Remix’s crew, Wheelwell, had always waited for the nanoklik he thought he was alone and then pounce from behind, pinning him against the floor or the wall face first in a secluded area of the warehouse where no one would look. Whatever he did next depended on the mood he was in; most often he would be put in stasis cuffs so he was frozen where he was, hardly able to vent properly and unable to get up. As Wheelwell went about his day, he would occasionally step over him or drop heavy tools, filling him with adrenaline he couldn’t release.

When he remembered that, Huffer had been unnaturally driven to search the entire place for intruders and when his pace-mates had returned, he had been able to pass off everything as normal. The next instance caught him on the worksite, unable to focus any attention whatsoever on what he was doing. He hadn’t heard from the two in several joors and an overwhelming sense of panic was taking over.

 _What if Gears has a meltdown and no one’s with him or no one knows how to help him? What if it’s too much for him and he takes out the card? What if he goes back to NET and we never see him again? What if Brawn_ does _try to help him and NET catches both of them?!_

When they returned from a supply run, made longer by a change of the pickup location, Huffer had grabbed Brawn with shaking hands and informed him with no room for doubt that while he could understand wanting to go with Gears for company’s sake, supplies were not his job and that as soon as they got enough credits for a big home purchase, they would be buying a comm. unit.

It had been much more reassuring to be able to route calls to them at any time via the new comm. link to their audials and as much as they complained, Huffer was certain they appreciated the voice on the other end making sure they were fine for the seventh time in an afternoon.

Since then, however, Huffer had been trying not to overbear on them and in doing so he was afraid he had gone too far away. Gears wasn’t quite ready to be close, to trust, and he could understand that, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t hurting him. Brawn…

 _It’s not like it was the first time; I know he trusts me and we…we_ are _close_ , he told himself again now. _But we’re not getting any closer_. That was what bothered him. Every time he thought there might be an opportunity for them to have some time to themselves, even if it was just for talking, it was just out of reach. It may as well have been lightyears away.

He overthought, he overreacted, he overbore on them…but he didn’t think that was what he had done this time. The opposite would probably be worse, which was why he had first suggested they begin taking turns choosing an activity they could do together.

Last diun, Gears had wanted to take them to a concert, which had greatly surprised them since he complained about helm-aches so often, but he had been insistent about it.

“You didn’t say you’d argue; you said you’d go along and you’d like it!” he reminded them sternly, to which they had both given in. With Gears, it was best to appease when he really had his spark set on something.

What had followed afterward was strongly unpleasant, to say the least. Of course Gears had enjoyed himself, but Huffer had suffered the helm-ache that skipped Gears, needing to retreat to the outdoor washrooms half a dozen times to make his audials stop ringing. The noise hadn’t bothered Brawn. In fact, it did the opposite; he’d gone into recharge until he slid out of his seat and onto the floor.

Hopefully what Huffer had chosen for this evening would be different.

Almost as though he’d read his processor, Brawn waved a wafer in front of his face and questioned, “What’s the plan?”

“Be patient and you’ll find out,” Huffer replied mysteriously, snatching the wafer out of his grip and skidding out of the kitchen with it before Brawn could catch him, mildly disappointed when his leader didn’t even try. That was another thing that had changed; Brawn teased him more verbally now than wrestling with him, which he had always enjoyed. He liked the fact that despite appearances they were almost evenly matched, but that didn’t matter if both sparks weren’t in it.

The work passed just the same as usual and Huffer was given the opportunity to admire how his pace-mates functioned, which just made the ache in him to be close with them stronger. On the site, they didn’t have very many opportunities to talk, since all of their jobs were different, but after his great idea, once they understood him better, they were sure to have a sturdy topic of conversation.

As it grew to be late afternoon, he decided he couldn’t stand to have them in suspense any longer, catching them on their break to tell them what they would be doing tonight.

“As it turns out, there’s an exhibition in our sector,” he explained eagerly, “and it’s about how Cybertron was built!”

Gears blinked a few times and then questioned cautiously, “It was made by Primus. We know all that—unless you don’t?”

Huffer rolled his optics, planting his hands on his hips. “That’s sparkling school lessons, Gears, of course I know it! What I mean is how the cities were built! This exhibition travels all over Cybertron, not just Culumex, and it holographically recreates how the first engineers instigated the populations of any sort of place—Praxus, Polyhex, Harmonex, Vos! It all sounds so interesting!”

“Hahaha, those larger-frames probably had a fun time watching our city come together. Show ’em _good_ building for a change,” Brawn commented lightly, to which Huffer grinned and nodded.

“Of course, but we can say something for their cities since they haven’t collapsed, right?” Neither of them were quick to agree, but Huffer didn’t mind. That was precisely the reason he was taking them to do this. As an engineer, he could admire almost any creative way of putting things together, but he could understand where Brawn and Gears were coming from. They should have pride in _their_ city, _their_ work, first and foremost. It was in their nature!

That was likely why when they found the holographic imaging for Culumex among those of the exhibit, they tended to stay there. Occasionally Huffer managed to pull them away from it for a minute or two to show them something odd that the Vosians had done—in fact, he found himself actively looking for flaws in the designs so Brawn would be interested in boasting about it—but he did think it was a pretty fulfilling time. If anything, it had boosted his pace-mates’ esteem in their race.

“So…did you like it?” he asked hopefully when they started their walk home, dusk falling on the edges of the light generators.

“Yeah, it was nice,” Brawn assured him kindly. “Thanks, Huffer.”

The engineer let these words sink in, all the implications behind them coming along too. _“Thanks, Huffer, for sharing. Thanks for taking your turn.”_

He swallowed, unsure of when he had started watching his feet again, and then looked up again just in time for Gears to question, “Whose turn is it for dinner?”

“Mine,” Huffer admitted softly, swallowing again to withhold his next thought: _Maybe you’ll appreciate that a bit more_.


	4. Chapter 4

“We got an even bigger reaction than usual!” Kiln crowed, slapping Strain on the back instead of the shoulders, since they could get a little sensitive after a performance like that. “Did you see those mechs in the front? Ooh, they looked like they were about to burst!”

“Clean off and clean up, brother,” Incinerator ordered, tossing a thermal tarp at him so he could wipe off his oily hands. “We’ve got a celebration to attend.”

“Whose?”

Incinerator’s optics sparked as he grinned and folded his arms, wings twitching. “Well, whose do you think?” Pivoting, he questioned, “Know any good places, Charger?”

Windcharger knew why he’d be asking, but he didn’t understand how Incinerator could think he had a valid answer, so after a pause he shrugged and shook his helm. “Sorry, Cin, I haven’t been here in vorns.” _And you know it_. He hoped his vocals hadn’t been too tense in his answer, but Boomerang was already looking up different taverns on a holomap. Despite his words, Windcharger recognized several of the locations, but he didn’t bother telling them that.

“Hey, how about… _there?_ ” Highstake suggested with a wicked smile, jabbing a finger into the image of a high-end restaurant and bar combination. “From what our accountant tells me, we got quite a load tonight and I’m in the mood to take _off_ a load.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear, especially when it’s from our accountant. Besides, cleaning first,” Incinerator reminded them sternly, swiping a hand through the projector so the imaging blurred. “Hurry and we can get there before it closes.”

Windcharger and the others obediently rushed through their little chores—mopping up the melted nitrogen, sweeping through any mess the audience left in the surrounding seats, disposing of any leftover energon cubes—and after about a joor and a half they were finished. “For what’s meant to be the first-class sector of Culumex, they do leave a mess,” Highstake grumbled, earning a shove from Boomerang.

“Hey, bit-brain, remember a mech named Windcharger? He’s one of our own?”

“Oh, yeah…” Highstake hesitated, visibly going through the process of wondering if he should apologize, and Windcharger waved him off before he could.

“Sure, I was _raised_ here in Solus, but it’s not my home,” he told him firmly. “Don’t start to think you’re insulting me!”

Thus made up, they left that topic of conversation politely behind, packing up all of their belongings to later store in their private pods for the trip to the next sector. For now they simply put them in subspace and filed out to the location Highstake had chosen. It was a long walk, but according to what Boomerang was reading, it would be worth it.

Along the way several mechs stopped them to praise their work in the arena and they all took the compliments humbly, but Windcharger could see the pride they all took in each other as a pace.

Not for the first time, it made him wish he had met them all a little sooner, _before_ they had decided to close ranks and not pursue any other members. As far as Windcharger knew, it had only been a mere three diuns before he’d joined the troupe that they had performed the Sealing Rites.

Even so, he knew he was included in their other achievements by how they redirected attention to him, reminding members of the Solus sector that he was the one who had rescued the sparkling from free fall. It boosted him to be remembered.

When they reached The Root Cube Club, Windcharger halted, recalling that this was a place his sire had frequented. He shifted for a klik or two outside the door before following the others inside.

As suggested by the name, the place had all ranges of energon tracing back to the very roots of the sector; several vintage cubes were lined on opaque glass shelves above them, glistening as though they had just been polished.

 _No doubt they have. It’s Solus we’re talking about_ , Windcharger mused dryly. He and the rest of the troupe had known when coming here that Solus had high expectations, higher than any other sector of Culumex, and from the looks of it they had done a decent job living up to them, but Windcharger still couldn’t help but feel wary in places like this, not just for himself but for his company.

Incinerator was proud in bearing, more so when his wings were spread, but even without them he was easily a mech one would choose to be pace-leader. Boomerang was a sight to behold and she kept her pace-mates in line; it was never explicitly stated, since femmes were special cases, but she was the One who stabilized them.

It was with Kiln that the downside began. He was a young **sequein** and full of pride, naïve enough to challenge someone influential if he thought his brother’s leadership was being questioned—which he was quick to think. Highstake, as **trilitare** , was _not_ quick to think, so he said things he didn’t mean. Windcharger had come to expect that of him, but worse than Kiln’s potential challenge was Highstake’s potential insult. Strain…everywhere he went, someone was staring, no matter the sector or pace or rank. To any of those who believed they were superior, of which Solus had plenty, the **quanidre** would be a freak.

None of this seemed to be on the minds of the others, however, as they had already seated themselves and were waving him over. He forced a smile for their sakes and joined them, squeezing between Highstake and Kiln.

“You did great tonight, all of you,” Incinerator announced what they already knew when their orders were brought to them. “I was actually surprised at how nicely it closed!”

“True, but I think Strain needs a new paintjob,” Highstake teased, smirking at his partner, who lifted an eyebrow skeptically in response. “What? The raven and gray you have now is too muted!”

“Since when are you the leading authority in such matters?” Strain questioned in an unreadable tone, but Windcharger thought he saw a glimmer of a smile playing around his face. He couldn’t be sure.

“Since I know what I’m talking about,” Highstake said confidently. “And trust me, your paint makes you look even gaunter than you are!”

“If I seem _gaunt_ to you, I trust that out of kindness and concern for me, you won’t mind sharing this,” Strain countered smoothly, extending an arm just enough to snag the decanter, which sat by Highstake’s elbow, and begin drawing it back toward him, earning protestations from all on that side of the table. Thinking fast, Windcharger targeted the metal container with his magnetism, pulling on it lightly.

“It’s the battle of the orn, femmes and gentlemechs,” Kiln announced, deepening his voice to sound like his brother, who rolled his optics. “Who will win in this battle of _wits_ and _power_? Who will weaken in the face of the opposition?!”

“Both of ’em,” Boomerang announced, reaching across the table and squeezing Strain’s shoulder enough to make him wince and thereby loosen his hold. The femme caught the decanter on its way down and took a sip from it, obviously claiming it, and no one currently had the ball bearings to try making a move on her. Perhaps after a few cubes, it would be different.

“So have you seen our creators lately, Cin?” Kiln inquired, leaning across the tabletop and folding his hands under his chin. “They’ve been calling, asking about you.”

Incinerator audibly suppressed a scoff by smiling thinly. “No doubt so they can deafen me with their reproaching. You were always the favorite, Kiln.” He must not be bitter about that if he stated it outright, with no change to his vocals. “Now, really, don’t bore our company! Find a topic of conversation that isn’t so dry.”

That they did, telling stories and jokes that they had picked up, though most of them they already knew by spark. Windcharger enjoyed these times when they could all loosen up and forget anything they still had to do, but times like those were few and far between. Sure enough, Kiln glanced at his chronometer and winced.

“Oh, we’re on the clock. Strain, let’s move.” With a shared nod, they both rose and Strain glanced at Windcharger.

“Are you working tonight?”

“No, it’s my night off,” Windcharger reminded him. “But good luck.”

“I appreciate it.” So saying, the two strode out together and just a minute or so later Incinerator also stood.

“It’s about time we go home and burn this off during recharge,” he proclaimed, helping Highstake and Boomerang to their feet. “This will be my treat.”

“Aw, c’mon, Cin,” Windcharger pleaded as he followed their lead. “You don’t have to do that!”

“I insist,” Incinerator assured him. “After all, you supplied me with many of these credits! The least I can do is pay for your fuel.” So saying, he slung one arm around Highstake and Boomerang each, urging, “Come, pace-mates. I’m looking forward to the fresh air.”

Windcharger wasn’t exactly included in that and he knew it, but Incinerator didn’t seem to notice his discomfort with what he’d said. He was part of the community, he had to remind himself, if not part of the pace itself. Even so, he let them get ahead of him on the walk back to their string of private pods, where they lived as they traveled. There were two: the larger one was for the pace to stay together and the smaller was his own. He didn’t mind the privacy, but he couldn’t help but wonder how they might spend that time before they fell into recharge.

He talked to himself if he was feeling like the silence needed to be filled and other times he kept his thoughts in his processor. This was how he felt tonight, studying the pristine buildings around him. In the Solus sector, there was hardly any construction; everything was as upgraded as safety standards would allow.

“Windcatcher!”

Windcharger whirled around despite the fact that the name wasn’t exactly right, for it was a sparkling voice that had said it. He recognized the little one who had participated in the show at once, smiling at him as he rushed forward, followed by his slightly embarrassed creators.

“He’s dragged us halfway across the sector looking for you,” the sire mumbled. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Course not,” Windcharger assured them, kneeling in front of the sparkling, who suddenly seemed shy now that they were face to face. “Did you enjoy flying?” he coaxed with a grin.

“Yeah!” the sparkling assured him, nodding vigorously and then lunging to put arms around his neck. “’m glad you catched me!”

Windcharger laughed lightly. “I am too, little guy.” He always appreciated little things like this; it was just another thing Incinerator and the others had given him. Hopefully every performance was just another thing he could give back to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, despite what you may have believed, Windcharger is NOT part of the pace but he is part of the troupe. And he has a thing for children. ^v^


	5. Chapter 5

Gears was pleased with his new lot in life—mostly.

He knew what he had now was supposed to be better than what he’d had before; a pace was supposed to give to their people that particular feeling, the one he didn’t dare think of, even though a pace _did_ bring him…fortune. He had to consider it fortune and then focus on everything that wasn’t before he let himself suspect it was something more.

To distract himself, he focused most of his attention on physical maintenance. One thing he could say for NET was that they had kept him in peak condition and now that he was out of their program, he was deteriorating bit by bit. It scared him more than it probably should and he had claimed what was supposed to be the buffer they shared, keeping it close in case he got a scratch that troubled him too deeply. Occasionally he would peruse the other mechs in what he hoped was a subtle manner, making sure they seemed alright because who knew what recharging on the floor could do to all three of them? Just because he was in a different room didn’t mean they couldn’t all be attacked by some unsavory creature like a stray retro-rat, carrying glitches.

He’d also confiscated one of Brawn’s data pads for looking up medical conditions to make sure he didn’t have them, but it was akin to torturing himself because after he’d studied the known information about them, he’d feel the need to wash, as though the malware could creep through the screen and get at him. He might have felt guilty for that if his own data pads hadn’t held something much more precious.

**_To Gears, my sweet creation:_ **

**_I don’t know how or if this will ever reach you, but I want you to know your sire and I think about you every joor. It used to be every minute, but we know you would nag if you found out about that. Personally, I wouldn’t mind the nagging, if it meant we could hear some news from you. I do hope you’re staying well, sweet. I recognize that the way those NET researches care for you might be more thorough than what we can offer, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t visit. At the very least we’ll give you our home, energon, and love. All of them are free for you to accept._ **

**_Gadget_ **

**_Gears:_ **

**_What can I say to tell you how much I miss you? Your carrier convinced me I should try to send this and I sincerely hope it gets to you, but I’m not too sure. You should remember how I used to get when I was unsure; I’d do that really jittery laugh. I guess I’ve been doing that a lot lately and I never even realized. Now I just want you to be here laughing with me. I’m deeply ashamed to admit that I’ve forgotten how you sound when you honestly laugh. I need you to remind me; I don’t think holovids compare to the real thing._ **

**_Your sire,_ **

**_Switch_ **

The first time he’d read the letters, Gears was sure his spark might just break, fall out of its chamber and kill him with the pain of his loss. The circuit card had weighed heavily in his chest and tangled up his throat and he’d slid down the wall into the corner, hugging the data pad close. He’d known he was imagining the warmth of his creators’ fingers, typing the words, but even that knowledge hadn’t helped.

Slag, how he missed them. He appreciated how his new pace-mates tried to help him though. Brawn had briefly, lightly gone into how he missed his own creators, who had broken ties with him because of the Unraveling, and Gears had wondered just how much worse it would be for a mech to know his creators were alive and well and _hated_ him. That had given Gears a push—not to move on but to accept, as did Huffer’s admission that his own creators had joined the Allspark too and he almost hadn’t recovered from it until he realized they would never have wanted him prolonging his own suffering for their sakes when they were at peace.

Peace for Switch and Gadget…They weren’t in pain and he shouldn’t be worried that they were. That had comforted him deeply, but beyond telling them that he would join their pace and that he would be happy, he didn’t _dare_ consider showing it to his new leader and One. Somehow, someday it would end up being too good to be true and it would be his fault. Now that he thought back on how he had met them, he was sure if he cracked just one smile they would recoil from him. They would probably overreact and think that his greatest personal fear had come true: the circuit card had failed and he was slowly but surely reverting back to his old programming. He wouldn’t even know it until it was too late.

Unfortunately, when that inevitably happened, Gears had no idea how he would reassure them because he was unsure that it had _ever_ been working correctly.

He recognized that since he’d put it in, he’d been angry, mistrustful, even vindictive on occasion, and it wasn’t Brawn and Huffer’s fault; it never had been, yet he was taking it out on them. That in turn made him feel ashamed, broken, and undeserving. There was depth to those feelings that he hadn’t experienced since he was a sparkling and now he was a full adult frame with only a sparkling’s grasp on how to sort emotions. It was hateful.

This was why he had no idea how to take action when he thought Huffer might have gotten his feelings hurt last night. He knew all about hurt, of course, but how to make it better? He didn’t want to go anywhere near there; it would end in happiness. Gears almost felt disgusted with himself for even considering happiness as an option. If they really knew happiness, he had a feeling he wouldn’t be doing them any favors.

“ _There’s a businessmech, there’s a widowed mate, a shattered life with a smiling face_ ,” he sang softly, catching himself on the third line and shaking his helm. That hit a little too close, so he didn’t continue.

He was doing his best to protect them from the harm happiness could do—by making them just a bit miserable. He was able to bring things to their attention that needed fixing, but that could work against him too. They would fix it and that would make them happy and he didn’t _want_ that life for them! So he always had to find something else for them to focus on.

For example, he was satisfied with his new job as the supply manager. It was much simpler than his job as overseer of the site and the mechs who worked with and under him on the materials were kind. However, the commute to several of the warehouses was long and he could use it to his advantage by asking Brawn to make runs with him where he could keep an optic on him. That in turn made Huffer worry, which kept him from being happy. It had been a perfect plan and Gears had ended up— _pleased_ with it.

It was an endless tangle of frustration: when he made sure they weren’t going to be exposed to the dangers of happiness, he was happy that they weren’t. Somehow their unhappiness, however it manifested itself, made him happy and whatever made them happy made him worry for them. He didn’t want them happy but he didn’t want them panicking; it had to be a perfect balance for him to finally give up and be—but he didn’t _want_ to be satisfied!

How in the Pit did everyday mechs handle emotions like these? His own were completely uncooperative and gave him helm-aches, which made him sure that he was coming down with something yet again.

In any case, Gears tried not to be too fretful when Brawn woke them the morning after Huffer’s exhibition, beaming in excitement for something that was probably unworthy of it.

“Alright, I know we just did our little outing last night…” Brawn began when he’d managed to drag a grumbling Gears to the front room, where Huffer was already starting to doze again. Brawn prodded him sternly with a foot and recaptured the attention he could give before finishing, “…but what I have planned for the next one is a bit time-sensitive, so I thought we could just have two this diun.”

“Don’t tell me it’s another exhibition,” Gears sighed, not addressing the way Huffer’s shoulders slumped but definitely noticing. He was disappointed and somehow Brawn wasn’t seeing it, but Gears saw it. He felt bad for the engineer, of course, and that was good. As long as they felt bad—

“No, it’s not,” Brawn assured them, his grin widening and making Gears slightly wary. “Actually, I thought we could attend something we never have before. It’ll be fun—invigorating, even! Ask me what it is.”

“Invigorating? I’m _afraid_ to ask,” Huffer admitted.

Brawn laughed, folding his arms proudly. “Alright then, I’ll tell you. We’re going to attend a **leivenustre**! I hear the priests are holding it in the very same courthouse we built last vorn! You remember it, of course. As always, the Zealots invited anyone from any sector and I think it would be…” He puzzled over what word to use and then he brightened with a toothy grin. “…enlightening. It’s a quintun from today and I thought I’d let you know now so you can prepare your sparks and processors for the ceremony.”

Gears and Huffer shared a glance, mirroring pure dread back at each other and then directing it at their leader. “Brawn…” Huffer piped up in a small voice. “…um, you just said the _Zealots_ are running it.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

Speaking very slowly, even painstakingly, Huffer stressed, “The same Zealots who I’ve heard you call ‘rigid’, ‘maniacal’, ‘fanatic’, and ‘frankly-slagging-crazy’.”

“They think we can all rise to ‘Matrix-status’!” Gears quoted to continue the protest. “And you said they get blitzed on their own incense.”

Brawn straightened, giving them a surprisingly defensive glower that honestly took Gears aback. He could see Huffer fidgeting under the scrutiny in his peripheral vision, but he was more focused on his mental list of places Brawn had been today. He would’ve needed to go somewhere before he brought them out of recharge, but he knew as a fact that Brawn wasn’t too quiet, so where could he have contracted the glitch currently messing with his—

“Slag,” Brawn burst out, his threatening demeanor dropping in favor of laughing and startling Gears out of his thoughts. “Slag, is that really what you think of me?! I _love_ you, guys; I would never put you through that!” Refolding his arms in quite a self-satisfied manner, he concluded, “It turns out that in a quintun, the carnival’s in town.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leivenustre: a religious movement by a group that apparently has...abnormal beliefs... O.o
> 
> *cue Gears and Huffer smacking Brawn for scaring them like that*


	6. Chapter 6

After nearly a quintun of travel, the High-Octane Flyers had made it to the Nexus sector, rather impressed by the sector itself as well as its people. In fact, as soon as they had arrived, they’d all split up to explore the area. Just now their first show had ended and Windcharger could frankly say he was delighted in how it had gone.

The Nexus sector made for great entertainment for the carnival just as much as the carnival encouraged it for them. Windcharger had known when he first received their new location that they had to catch them at precisely the right time. Nexus was in the middle of a lot of construction, expanding their borders, and depending on how it was progressing the inhabitants could be either very amiable or very hostile.

He should’ve known it would be the former; Windcharger loved just how much spark the audience was showing for this show; they were even more appreciative of the performance than Solus had been, particularly for the finale. It warmed Windcharger’s internals to see the reaction lasting past the ovation, during the milling about of the crowd.

Incinerator often asked him to mingle, acting like a nondescript member of the audience, and ask strategic questions to see exactly how they were rated in a sector. It was an interesting role he had to play and in a way it gave him an entirely new way of looking at their setup; it was a little different to play to each sector’s tastes.

The way they’d set the after-show area for Nexus was muted, letting the sector’s natural light take over so they wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the luminescence. For one of the strongest, fiercest sectors, they were to be handled in a surprisingly gentle manner.

 _They’re technical, they’re tinkers, but they don’t like anyone tinkering with them_ , Windcharger mused as he watched the adults decipher the games and demonstrate to the sparklings. Even by his own Culumexian standards, Nexus paces of any age or size were utterly fascinated with format. He chuckled as he watched a group of seven playfully bickering over one of the machines they were examining. One of the youngest was waving away a visibly older mech who was trying to use authority to move him aside and Windcharger raised an eyebrow in amusement as it turned to a wrestling match in approximately a nanoklik. Personally Windcharger felt sorry for the younger mech; though their elders were less agile, they only seemed to get stronger with their vorns.

Nearby, there was a group of three fighting for the last few rust sticks they’d bought. The tallest was hovering the treats teasingly above the shortest, with the third, whose height was squarely between them, shaking his helm repeatedly and appearing quite disinterested—up to the point where he leapt up and snatched the rust sticks from his unsuspecting friend’s fingers, stuffing all of them in his mouth and earning glares from both of the others, though the stealer only seemed to care about the frown from the larger one, smirking back.

“Call me ‘ _little_ One’ now!” he snarked, earning an inclination of the helm from the larger mech that probably meant he was impressed. It was probably some inside joke they had, but as much as Windcharger enjoyed observing, he couldn’t help but wish again that he could have something like that, an opportunity to make some mechs smile as that young pace was doing now.

He was still pondering this as he felt a tug on his shoulder and was drawn slightly out of the throng. Upon turning, he found Incinerator’s accountant, smiling as he always did when he was in a bit of a rush.

“I have a message for your pace-leader about your credit balance,” he got right to the point, “but I can’t seem to find him to tell him about it.”

“He’s not my pace-leader,” Windcharger cut in, earning a scoff and shake of the helm.

“Whatever he is to you, Incinerator needs this data pad,” the accountant insisted, pressing it into his hand. “It’s the current balance you’ve all been earning, alright?”

Windcharger smiled brightly and nodded dutifully before checking his chronometer and wincing. “I’ve gotta get to work. Thanks for this!” He gave the crowd a rather longing glance and then shook it off. He knew Incinerator wouldn’t be happy if he ended up being late to one of his first assignments in this sector!

He met up with Kiln not far from the carnival site. Skeptically Windcharger swiped at a streak of oil over his chamfron and Kiln rubbed the same place, smearing it further across his plating.

“What happened to cleanup?” Windcharger questioned.

“Ah, I was busy. Cin and I had to pick up a package,” Kiln explained with a shrug. “At least this sector’s got nice public wash-racks. Remember the time in the Onyx sector—”

“I don’t _need_ to remember, Kiln,” Windcharger cut him off, twisting his mouth in disapproval. “Where _is_ Cin? I need to give him a data pad from the accountant.”

“And come to think of it, he was asking for you,” Kiln recalled. “As soon as I handed off his package, he picked up Strain and Highstake and took ’em to a guesthouse.”

Windcharger frowned lightly. It wasn’t often they used a guesthouse; in fact, the last time he could recall them using one was in the Vector area; not long after that, they had been under threat from the more intrusive Culumexians: the residents of the Alchemist sector. That was another thing Windcharger didn’t like remembering. It had happened not long after he’d joined the troupe, when none of them were as experienced and they could never have expected the reaction they got from Alchemist’s esteemed populace.

_“Let me up, Boomerang. If they want a demonstration of my power, I’ll gladly give it to them.”_

_“Stay down, Strain,” Boomerang ordered sharply, planting a staying hand on the **quanidre** and pushing him further onto the floor of the old airway pod in which they were hiding. “Charger, stop squirming.”_

_“What do they want?” Windcharger asked in a whisper, clenching and unclenching his hands, trying to keep his sensory net as flat as possible. If he got too stressed, it tended to charge of its own will. “And why?”_

_“They want the three of us,” Incinerator deadpanned in response, wings lightly flouting his control as he tried to fold them onto his back, the only sign that he was disconcerted. “You, Strain, and I. We’re specimens unlike what they’ve seen before; we’d be an intriguing find and a…productive study.”_

_Kiln, sitting close to him, balled his fists on his knees and leaned forward to peer out the window of the pod. “They’ll have to get through us,” he muttered._

_“No, they won’t. Highstake is examining the mechanics of this pod to see if he can jumpstart it,” Incinerator assured them with even less of a tone. “Don’t be nervous—and Windcharger, take a klik or two to ex-vent. We’re not freaks or science experiments and we won’t become them.”_

_Windcharger looked up to see his new mentor studying the rusted interior of the pod. Meeting his gaze abruptly, Incinerator gestured offhandedly at the window. “I think with a tarp, it could be quite a private little traveling home, don’t you? And I believe there’s a joint pod still connected.”_

“So…he didn’t take them to the pods?” Windcharger of the present queried.

“Nope, the guesthouse was closer.” So saying, Kiln gave him the coordinates and wandered off toward the public wash-racks with a remark that he hoped they would be pest-free.

When he reached the two-story guesthouse, Windcharger could say it was the first building in Nexus that made him hesitate to enter. Compared to some of the housing developments he saw in progress, this was drab and poorly built. It seemed to be an old establishment, however, which would explain that.

The clerk directed him to one of the far back suites, which had two berthrooms. Upon entering the foremost room, Windcharger faltered, his vents stuttering just slightly.

“Who are you?” he asked after a full minute of silence.

The sparkling who leaned against the doorway to the second room looked up at him with wide optics. “Remote…Motey. Who’re you?” he echoed back.

After another pause, Windcharger forced a smile. “I’m Windcharger. Nice to meet you.”

Remote squinted at him for a few kliks and then his optics lit up. “You’re the mech who can make us fly!” he exclaimed. “Can you do that with me?!”

“Oh, so you’ve seen our holoposters around,” Windcharger remarked casually, receiving a vigorous nod and he feigned reluctance. “Well, I don’t know if your little wings have sprouted yet.”

“Well…they’re invisible!” Remote announced smugly. “But I have ’em, I have ’em! Make me fly!”

“Alright, I’ll give you a little push,” Windcharger promised, warmth stretching and curling around his spark. “But then you have to fly on your own.” Waving a hand, he focused his energy and lifted him a few inches from the ground. Remote played along, flapping his arms wildly.

“You’re doing most of the work, Motey!” Windcharger exclaimed, feigning surprise. Then a thump from within the second berthroom caught his attention—from the vibration, it seemed like someone’s fist had hit the wall.

“What were you thinking?” Highstake demanded. The muffling of his voice did nothing to detract from the near-tangible anger. “Of all the bit-brained ideas—”

“Tread carefully, **trilitare** ,” Incinerator growled.

“That’s what I wish _you_ would do!” Highstake countered, causing Windcharger to wince as he absently levitated Remote in circles. “Did you even do your research this time? We’ve only just arrived!”

“As soon as we did, I got the call—and what was I to do, ignore it?” Incinerator’s vocals lowered and became a bit chiding. “But this means our reputation is beginning to precede us.”

“And that’s dangerous!” Highstake insisted. “Particularly if you think Windcharger is ready for greater assignments. We don’t exactly want to shoot him down just as he’s showing potential!”

Setting Remote back on the floor near the berth, Windcharger moved closer to the door, straining his audials. Boomerang said sometimes that he hadn’t yet gotten one of the hard jobs. Was he graduating to that level?

Incinerator’s reply was lost as Windcharger noticed Strain had materialized at the washroom door, uncoiling his arms to snatch up little Remote, who had scurried toward the exit while Windcharger was distracted. Remote whined, kicking as Strain’s arms drew him steadily back.

“You need to stay here and wait patiently,” Strain said shortly, planting Remote on the berth.

Remote twisted his small hands in his lap, murmuring, “But when can I see my creators again?”

Windcharger glanced pointedly at his partner. Was he imagining when Strain spoke again that his vocals showed just a glimmer of remorse? Even if he wasn’t, the words themselves were not so sympathetic.

“Your creators are well off and they’re smart, Remote. You can see them as soon as they pay the ransom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All is not as it seems, obviously...


	7. Chapter 7

Brawn’s first thought as he came online was the recollection that Gears had smiled last night. He sat up quickly, reaching to shake Huffer’s arm and then pausing, smiling at the tranquility he was reading on the edges of his friend’s EM field. He didn’t dare disturb that and rose to his feet to make breakfast instead.

He had suspected that the carnival would bring them closer, find the sparkling somewhere in them, and he’d been right, Brawn was pleased to note as he seized up several kinds of fixings and threw them together. What a night. Gears hadn’t even found anything to complain about and _that_ was saying a lot!

Everything had been nice and Brawn had a feeling it would continue to be. Humming in low tones, he continued his work, glad that he could feel accomplished. This was looking to be a promising diun, especially with his home life, but with work as well. Their current project was progressing quickly; they were already finished with the twelfth story of the new public archive and were starting on the thirteenth.

The archive would finally allow Nexus some of the credit that it was due in Culumex’s history and give their sparklings a good education in more than how to craft something. Even though craft was a high value, one of the highest, intelligence worthy of schools in other cities was few and far between. They wanted to change that; proving themselves to the larger-frames was the one thing _all_ of the sectors agreed about. This was just another step in doing that.

Even better, some of the librarians who had complained that the outside noise of construction would be a disruption were being appeased with soundproof plating which would deflect the constant echoes of drilling and hammering, of life. That had been Huffer’s idea, Brawn was quite proud to say. He said it to anyone who needed to hear it, quite blatantly bragging until the listener walked away or until a particular embarrassed One and a grumpy **sequein** practically begged him to stop.

To be something of a glitch, he would then go and have a rather one-sided discussion about it with whoever might be jealous that they hadn’t thought of it first. In a way, it was his manner of keeping the peace, making sure they knew that he knew what they might be considering. There would be no ‘retaliation’ on his watch.

Overall, Brawn was feeling fulfilled.

“Why do you never wake me up?”

The question startled him out of his humming and he turned to find Huffer leaning against the doorframe as he had been the past several mornings. Surprisingly enough, he wasn’t leaning on it for support. To the contrary, he looked very alert and clear for such an early time, fully online—and he was frowning. There was no trace of the tranquility from his recharge.

“Because you’re not a morning mech,” Brawn told him matter-of-factly. “You’ve told me that yourself!”

“When?”

“What do you mean, when?”

Huffer didn’t answer that question, moving closer and peering around him at the atypical servo salad he was creating. “And why do you never make _simple_ fuel like the rest of us?” he complained with a skeptical gesture thrown at the food.

Brawn’s following laugh was short and just as incredulous. “Says the one who decorates our Garbage O’s!”

“That was one time,” Huffer snapped, surprisingly defensive. Brawn shifted and scooted the food a few feet away from him, uncomfortable with the inexplicable bad mood. Come to think of it, that _had_ only been one time, for Gears’ creation orn since he so loved the O’s.

That was the orn Brawn and Huffer had privately conferred and agreed that when they bought the Garbage O’s they would dispose of the box on the way home and bring only the bag, so Gears wouldn’t find out the ingredients and throw a fit for his health. That had been a great laugh and it still was, watching their unsuspecting friend devour the junk fuel.

“Okay, you don’t have to eat this if you don’t want to,” he offered. “I’m not gonna be insulted; there’s cesium salami somewhere around here.”

“You never keep track of it, of course,” Huffer grumbled. “And you’re the one moving it! I haven’t been able to find it for something like the last three diuns!”

“It’s in the cupboard.”

“Like I knew that! You didn’t bother to tell me!”

Brawn blinked several times, processing this, and then sighed tersely, dropping the fixings into the bowl and turning to face Huffer more fully. “What’s bothering you, li—”

“And the nickname!” Huffer burst out, flailing his arms and causing Brawn to take a step back, startled. “The nickname needs to stop and it needs to stop now, today! I’m sick of it! You never even call me by my name anymore and you—”

“What are you talking about?” Brawn spoke over him, enunciating clearly so he could be heard, his processor frantically searching for a legitimate reason that Huffer might be making such a scene over a cluster of small issues. They could be speaking calmly about this; what was going on? “Is this because you haven’t had your energon yet? You’re being irrational—”

“I’m not being fraggin’ _irrational!_ ” Huffer nearly screeched, easily outmatching his volume and almost causing an echo in the small kitchen.

“Then why are you busting me up about all of that?” Brawn protested. “I let you recharge because you need the rest, you’ve told me you enjoy my turns making breakfast, we only have four cupboards and it’s not that hard to look in them, and you know by now that my nickname for you is just to tease you—it’s affectionate!”

“Well, find some other way to be affectionate!” Huffer spat. “Find something we can both participate in and maybe I’ll appreciate it more! Maybe _you’ll_ appreciate it more! I don’t know, maybe we can actually spend some time not talking about work or Gears or even the tricursed weather!”

“You’re screaming so loud I can hear the vibration through the washroom wall! What’s happening?” Gears demanded as he leaned around the doorframe, only to have a finger jabbed right between his optics.

“Go and wash!” Huffer commanded in a tone that held no room for argument.

For a klik or two Gears looked like he was going to object anyway, but Brawn shook his helm and repeated, “Go and wash, Gears, we’re figuring something out.”

 _No, we’re not_ , his processor cried, not at all matching his calm vocals. _I’ve got no idea what’s going on!_

Once Gears left their line of sight with a parting glower, Brawn glanced back at Huffer and found there hadn’t been any softening in the time of the interruption. Brawn stared at him, looking him up and down and then speaking much more quietly, more cautiously. “Huffer…what’ve I done wrong?”

It had to be something he’d done; there was no other alternative possible, as far as he knew. The last time Huffer had spoken to him like that had been when he thought he wasn’t trusted, but Brawn had made it up to him! He’d confided in him, shared things with him which only family members were privy to, and Huffer had done the same with him. It couldn’t be about trust, so what in the Allspark was wrong?

“Why don’t you ever wake me up anymore?” Huffer repeated. “Is it just because you think I need the recharge or is it more than that?” Before Brawn could answer, he sped on, “Personally I think it’s something more, but maybe I’m just being irrational, so explain yourself.”

Brawn swallowed, gradually lifting his hands in a placating manner. “I…can’t explain myself, cos I really don’t know what’s wrong, Huffer. Everything’s been—”

Suddenly but somehow fluidly Huffer moved toward him, grabbing his lifted wrists and shaking them slightly. “Don’t—say— _‘nice’_ ,” he spat out the words as though each were a separate order.

Tugging his hands out of his grip, which wasn’t as tight as his vocals, but could be if he wanted, Brawn tried, “But everything _has_ been—”

“Don’t say it!”

“Well, if you think it hasn’t, why haven’t you told me?” Brawn implored.

That seemed to be the question Huffer had been waiting for, if not the answer. He sighed, leaning against the counter, and stated, “Because we never talk anymore, not about anything important. We used to talk in the mornings before breakfast or at night before we powered down, we used to take walks on our break at work and get away from it all…Who am I supposed to talk to now, Brawn? Gears?! You know what he’ll say: ‘Shut up, you’re talking my audials off!’ I…just…”

Brawn waited, mostly so he could digest what had been said, but Huffer seemed to have run out of words. He didn’t look melancholy or weak, just…spent.

“I thought you were content,” Brawn admitted at last, fidgeting. “You never said anything.”

“Of course I didn’t,” Huffer muttered. “Cos it’d just be one more complaint to file with Gears’.” He hesitated, staring at the breakfast bowl, and then shrugged. “I’m not going to rail at you about being oblivious, I’m not going to storm out. But I’m upset and frustrated and you needed to know. So I’m glad I talked.”

 _He’s glad_ ‘he’ _talked, not ‘we’_ , Brawn noted, his spark sinking. He still couldn't come up with any words as Huffer wandered off, concluding uncomfortably, “I’m not hungry and we both know Gears takes forever in the wash-racks, so I think I’m just gonna go to work early, have some overtime.”

His One may not have stormed out, but he’d left, and it left Brawn feeling almost emptier.


	8. Chapter 8

Windcharger was relieved that Remote’s creators had come up with the credits for his safety so quickly. Though he had greatly enjoyed playing with the sparkling, he found it hard to ignore the fact that his comrades had abducted him. It was this way with every sparkling he had to look after while the others did their best to negotiate with the panicked creators, but he was glad that he was there to entertain and convince the little ones not to be afraid.

Right now he was still wondering what Incinerator had in store for him. He’d done several of the smaller jobs already: minding the sparklings, “reallocation of materials”, being the rear guard for Kiln and Highstake when they made deals with other characters of the Underground, so on and so forth.

If they were considering graduating him to a higher status, there had to be a test of some sort, Windcharger knew, and he was trying to expect the unexpected.

They had left the guesthouse once the trade with Remote had succeeded and now they were back in the pods. Windcharger was brought out of recharge early in the morning by a strident ringing from the pod adjacent; though it was muffled, Incinerator almost always forgot to turn down the volume on his handheld comm. unit. He sat up, moving aside the tarp over his window to see the troupe leader striding out of the pace’s pod with the comm. unit pressed against his audial.

It wasn’t a foreign sight, of course, but Windcharger felt compelled to watch, in case it was something important. He didn’t watch Incinerator’s face but his wings; he’d gotten practiced at a bit of wing-speak and currently his mentor’s were fluttering, the lighter plating across them flaring gently, almost hopefully. It had to be a potential job, Windcharger decided, optics narrowing as the plating abruptly flattened, giving the illusion of pushing his wings down. They did indeed lower, not out of defeat but something else.

 _Defensiveness,_ Windcharger realized, _and…what, worry?_ Incinerator stilled, casting a brief glance at his pace’s pod that confirmed Windcharger’s theory. Then, to his great surprise, Incinerator nodded, looking reluctant but apparently accepting whatever job was to be had. As soon as he hung up, Windcharger came out to meet him.

“Why are you up so early?” Incinerator chided. “Your performance last night was a lot.”

“Your ringtone woke me up,” Windcharger admitted, motioning at the comm. unit. Incinerator followed his gaze and nodded decisively, tossing the mobile into a nearby chute.

“It was about time I had a new one then.” At Windcharger’s expectant eyebrow-raise, Incinerator admitted, “We have a job. I’m considering assigning you to it.”

 _Because I’m the mech who can take the fall for the pace if I have to_ , Windcharger thought first, but he pushed it away. This would obviously end up being the graduation test, so he answered, “I welcome it. What’s the plan?”

Contrarily, it was to his credit that Incinerator hesitated. “The plan is to strike out against the Neural Exploration Trial.”

Windcharger gawked for a minute or two before sputtering, “NET? Our employer wants to slag around with NET?”

“Not directly,” Incinerator assured him hurriedly, holding up a hand. “But I’ve heard rumors of this particular mech with my contacts. From what I deem, he’s a former patient and he has a score to settle. He knows better than to interfere with the scientists themselves, but their test subjects are an entirely different matter.”

Windcharger contracted his vents and held them. “They…they’re miss-clocks, _wingnuts_! D-Does this ‘former patient’ plan on sending us into Alchemist?!”

“Lower your voice,” Incinerator ordered, his wings twitching smartly at the mention of the sector. “He wants you to destroy the Topper. It’s a tavern— _not_ in Alchemist—where many of their patients go to relax as much as they can, but he’s hoping that if that safe haven is taken from them, they will be open to luring. He may be able to draw them to a different location he has in progress, where his organization can be a more permanent fixture and influence the patients. But it all depends on you destroying that tavern. You don’t need to do it if you don’t want to.”

This last sentence was meant to make up Windcharger’s mind and it did just that. Loosening the hold on his vents, he muttered, “I need the coordinates and the layout plans, I think.”

After long joors studying, planning, and (more hesitantly) conversing with their employer over Incinerator’s interchangeable handheld comm. units, Windcharger arrived before the tavern opened and was therefore the first customer of the orn, but he couldn’t help but be shocked, even sickened by how much the place looked like a lab. Strobe lights were fixed onto the walls and ceiling and the air was charged with a deep humming that was supposed to resemble music but to his attuned audials was more like an old cooler.

This was how he imagined the inside of NET’s buildings to be. How could any of the subjects find a haven here? It made his plating crawl as he rebuffed the servers to better watch the tenants stream in. It hurt his helm and spark and made his sensory net tingle with rising stress. He ex-vented it as Boomerang had taught him, watching as the NET patients wandered in small clusters to the other tables, like they knew their placing by spark. What was even more disconcerting to him was that he could find only one pace evident among them. Were these mechs and femmes lonely? Did they _know_ that they were and could they do anything about it?

All of this simply made him more and more nervous about being here, inadvertently adding his own hum to the cooler-music.

Without any prior warning, a stranger slid into the booth across from him and questioned, “No drink?” His voice matched that of their employer.

“They’re probably laced,” Windcharger mumbled, earning a humorless laugh.

“Yes, probably.” Twincharge leaned across the table toward him, lowering his voice to a hiss. “Why did you ask me to meet you here? This is dangerous, not only for me as a former patient but for you as a potential!”

“I wanted to know about the tenants,” Windcharger explained, his words quick with unease. “Who are these people?”

Twincharge narrowed his optics, reminding him, “I hired you to destroy the building, so I don’t know why you want to know about the people, but I’ll do a rollcall anyway.” He swept a hand out across the bar. “These bots are my targets, the ones I have time-pressure to save. Some of them are showing promise of resisting the programming and some of them are getting worse. That pair there is Airlock and his older brother, Bullet Runner. They’re what NET personnel call Berserkers. This is their first time meeting after Bullet Runner tried to kill Airlock.”

 _He says it like it’s normal,_ Windcharger fretted, suppressing a shudder.

“Over there is Typhoon, a Vigil. I have to say I’m…shocked to see him here,” Twincharge admitted. “He rarely ever leaves his home; he’s too scared. I suspect that Salvo, who’s part of that pace right there, managed to coax him out. She’s a Trustee who’s been sweet on him since _I_ was enlisted. Crosslight is a Depressant—you can guess what that means. And that—ugh, that’s Pest. He, ah, likes pain. End of story.”

Windcharger didn’t really understand the terminology he was using, but it was fairly easy to draw the connections. “Alright…thanks.”

“Why did you want to know about them?” Twincharge wanted to know, sounded fairly suspicious. Windcharger half-shrugged.

“I guess it helps to remember whose lives I’m disrupting.” To anyone who knew Wincharger, it would be a blatant lie, but Twincharge accepted it easily enough and nodded, taking his leave with an urge to finish this place off soon.

 _Oh, I plan on it_ , Windcharger mused, finally letting his stress build toward the breaking point, his fingers vibrating. Now that he was aware of the tenants’ weaknesses, he could take advantage of them. He unfolded his long fingers from between his knees and began manipulating Pest’s metal decanter. The other mech was oblivious, too fascinated with the blaster he was examining and quite dangerously aiming at his face, so Windcharger lifted the decanter from his table and directed it through the air. He had no hesitation on who to choose but couldn’t help but mouth a silent apology as he targeted Airlock and Bullet Runner, flinging the pitcher at them and wincing when his fears were confirmed—it had been full. Energon splattered all over their plating, the chairs, and the table. Moreover, the pitcher knocked down their own cubes, flooding them away to waste.

The reaction was instantaneous, both occupants howling in shock and rage and targeting Pest in a united charge, taking him and his table to the floor under their sheer bulk. Pest cackled madly, apparently not minding the pain, and Windcharger turned his attention to the others, swiftly but surely guiding Pest’s chair to ‘slide’ across the floor and upset Crosslight’s. The femme burst into tears as soon as she hit the floor. The sound hurt Windcharger’s spark a little, but he continued, abandoning Pest’s chair to seize up Crosslight’s and twist it in just such a way that it smacked the unsuspecting Typhoon’s legs.

He jumped with a yelp of alarm and tripped over his own feet, landing in the lap of one of Salvo’s pace-mates. There wasn’t any doubt that he was a Berserker too; he shouted some choice words, practically throwing Typhoon away from him. The skittish mech took out several of the pace’s cubes with flailing movements of his arms before landing in a tangled heap with Crosslight, both of whom howled even more desperately for some kind of rescue.

The same mech who had thrown him leapt up, roaring at him for the loss of their cubes, and the other mechs in the group rose too, one smiling manically and the other completely expressionless. Typhoon whimpered, scrambling backwards on the floor, and Windcharger helped him along, his unseen force bolstering Typhoon’s paranoia by propelling him until he hit Bullet Runner’s back. The older Berserker whirled around, stepping over Typhoon’s cowering form to go at the standing mechs, who welcomed the challenge.

Windcharger wished he felt guilty for his triumph, but as he watched Airlock hurl Pest into one of the strobe lights on the wall and shatter it completely, he knew that this job was a success.

His escape from the obliterated tavern was also a success, but hard-won. Boomerang gave him a _look_ when he was cleaning up the cuts around his mouth and he managed a pained smile.

“I guess the moral of the story is that when NET bots get going, they don’t intend to stop,” he answered her unasked question, swiping at his lips one last time before continuing, “So…how’d I do?"

“Incinerator wants to see you.” Boomerang’s vocals weren’t that of congratulations.

Windcharger’s optics scrunched up in confusion. “Am I in trouble?”

“Probably,” Boomerang admitted, crossing her arms and shrugging simultaneously. She had never had a habit of softening any blows, so Windcharger winced lightly in surprise and consternation.

“But I finished the job!”

“Sure, you did,” the femme agreed, standing aside so he could exit his own pod and enter the pace’s. “ _How_ you got it done…that’s why he’s unhappy.”

Swallowing hard, Windcharger steeled himself and foraged into the pod, almost expecting it to be dark and intimidating. When he had first joined the troupe, when he was younger and had no friends, that was how he had viewed _them_.

The interior was just as Windcharger remembered it from when they had hidden in here, minus the rust and plus recharge slabs for each pace-mate. Kiln’s belongings in particular were strewn everywhere; when Windcharger entered, Incinerator was in the process of sweeping them up and cramming them over by his brother’s slab where they belonged but would never really fit. He stilled when he spotted Windcharger by the door.

“Oh, it’s you.” Straightening, Incinerator moved closer, his face grim. “You were supposed to destroy the Topper.”

“And I did that,” Windcharger confirmed, though his vocals went up by the slightest note at the end, making it more of a question. He wouldn’t ask outright what was wrong.

“You were rather hands- _off_ about it, Windcharger. You were supposed to be making a statement for our employer and you did none of that.”

Indignant, Windcharger protested, “Cin, I did it in a way that wouldn’t put me or the NET bots at risk! We’re supposed to be keeping a low profile on these missions; you considered not taking this one, didn’t you?” To prove he wasn’t eavesdropping, he added quickly, “I know you. Of course you hesitated—for good reason! If I’d gone and smashed the place, I would’ve exposed myself and made myself a mark. That would have made Strain—would’ve made _you!_ —targets too.”

Incinerator’s optics drifted slowly to a point past Windcharger’s shoulder as he considered. Windcharger counted each klik, suppressing his nervousness and hoping against hope that his friend would accept this explanation. To his relief, the larger mech jerked a nod.

“Alright, Windcharger, alright. You did well.” With the barest hint of a smile, Incinerator squeezed his shoulder. “It’s about time you graduated.”


	9. Chapter 9

As he had the last three mornings since the mostly one-sided talk, Huffer came online to the sweet smell of chrome-alloy cake. It was his favorite, but it couldn’t help but depress him in this case.

He sat up with a deep sigh, dropping his gaze to the empty recharge slab beside him, and then rubbed his optics. He hadn’t gotten very good recharge, but it wasn’t as though he’d expected any better. He’d been waiting up a bit later each night before he retired, standing outside with arms folded expectantly. Sometimes he could sense a guilty pair of optics studying the back of him from inside at the window, but Brawn had never quite gotten up the courage to actually come out and join him outside for conversation.

Instead he’d been trying to make up for it in other ways, such as his favorite meal. Rising, Huffer moved toward the kitchen, where he found Brawn hurrying to finish making the fuel before he came online. It was a little late for that, but Huffer wasn’t in too big of a hurry to reveal his presence.

His leader looked harried, even from behind. Huffer knew that was mostly his doing and he felt bad about it, but he wasn’t the one dragging this out. It wasn’t as if he wanted it to go on longer than it ought to and it wasn’t as if he didn’t appreciate the gestures Brawn was taking the time to make.

Not only had he been rewarded with a nice meal, he’d also been given the run of the wash-racks. He hadn’t been too surprised when he found Brawn up before him, but he’d found him blocking the door to the washroom from a very loudly-complaining Gears.

“C’mon, Gears, it’s not like you’re going to be given first turn at the wash-racks every time!” Brawn reminded him. “You know as well as I do that the plumbing cools the oil halfway through the second shower! It’s someone else’s turn to have a fully warm shower and that’s that! Take it like a mech. If you keep spending so long in there, your whole life is gonna pass you by.”

“Life isn’t trying to pass me by,” Gears growled, doubling his fists. “It’s trying to run me over!” On that dramatic note he’d stomped past Huffer into the kitchen to make his own breakfast. Huffer had rolled his optics and planted his hands on his hips, tapping one finger against his waist and waiting. When Brawn failed to speak before him, he waved at the door and addressed him simply.

“Well, take your turn.”

“Ah, you can have it,” Brawn told him, not quite looking him in the face and scooting past him after Gears.

After so long of having a half-warm and half-cold wash, it was nice to be given an opportunity for something better. But it wasn’t what he wanted.

 _Just be grateful_ , he would chastise himself as he scrubbed, harder and more painfully than was strictly necessary. _Be grateful and forgive him. He’s really trying to make it up to you!_

But if he wouldn’t talk to him, they were going to have a big problem. Talking was something Huffer _needed_ more than wanted. The only thing his former employers had given him was abuse and threats and Huffer knew for a fact that Brawn was better than that. Ignoring him wasn’t exactly the best way of showing how much better he was.

What he had to change wouldn’t be too difficult either; all Brawn needed to do was spend a bit of effort dividing his time more evenly between his pace-mates. He could be using the time he was dragging Gears away from the wash-racks to talk to him about his complaining, for instance! How hard could it be to say, “Gears, can you keep your thoughts to yourself if you know we’re not going to like them?”

Or if he wouldn’t do that, Brawn could likely find some other way to get Gears under control so he could be free for his One when he needed him. He was a smart and creative mech and he needed to use that if he wanted to prevent an unhappy pace-mate from becoming an _angry_ pace-mate.

These were the same thoughts he’d woken with the past few mornings and they were still just as true as they’d been before. Huffer watched Brawn pause, finally realizing that he was being watched, and he moved away before his friend could decide between turning or continuing his previous activity.

Despite or perhaps because of all of his previous thoughts, Huffer also couldn’t help but wonder if he should have taken up the issue with Gears instead of Brawn. Brawn was just reacting to what could very well be the real problem: Gears and his state of mind. His argumentative, faultfinding way of functioning was the reason Brawn was having trouble prioritizing between them. But somehow that didn’t matter anymore. He’d taken it up with Brawn and if he tried to talk to Gears about it now, he’d have alienated himself from both of them. It was best to just keep his mouth shut, as he had the past three orns and three vorns. Brawn wasn’t the kind to leave conflict unfinished. He’d figure it out on his own time, hopefully before Huffer wanted to feel bitter about it.

Even if he didn’t want to take it up with Gears, Gears seemed determined to take it up with him. They bumped into each other quite literally when Gears abruptly entered the washroom and walked into him.

“Watch it!” Gears grumbled, as though it were his fault. “I don’t want whiplash as soon as I’ve woken up!”

 _A little bump won’t be giving you whiplash_ , Huffer wanted to say. _The worst it could give you is a little dint, not even a big scrape!_ He didn’t bother pointing that out, holding up his hands placatingly.

“Sorry, I just—it’s my turn, isn’t it?”

Gears’ optics narrowed. “About that…” Leaning in so Huffer could clearly see his scowl was in full force, he lowered his voice. “You need to cut Brawn some slack.”

That was…not at all what Huffer had expected him to say. He blinked a few times and pressed his mouth into a thin line.

“Why should I?” If he sounded haughty, he didn’t mean to, but Gears seemed to take it that way, EM field flaring.

“Because he’s _moping!_ Haven’t you noticed the big, sad optics he’s been making at you? We were doing just fine until you messed him up, however you did it.” Throwing up his hands, he continued, “And he’s gotten so controlling! He’s commandeered the fuel, the energon, the hot oil—”

“And isn’t that his prerogative?” Huffer asked, surprised by how tightly his teeth were clenched against whatever he was trying to hold in. What exactly it was, he didn’t know.

“Not when it blunders up our entire home life!” Gears protested petulantly. “Whatever happened to being unbiased?”

That did it; all concerns about alienation flew out of his processor. “Oh, I suppose you want everything to be _nice_ again?!” Huffer spat, seizing his shoulders and yanking him in so they were nose to nose. “Before Brawn came, it was just me against the entire world. Before you came, it was just me and Brawn! We talked every orn! Now we barely talk at all and do you want to know why? Because he was trying to be unbiased for _you_. We wanted you in this pace and we still want you in this pace. You’re welcome here, but I sincerely hope you won’t go forgetting your place.”

Gears looked startled for a klik or two and then he visibly wavered between accepting what was being said and being angry, so Huffer made the decision for him by continuing.

“Let me give you a little reminder: you’re the **sequein** and he’s our leader. He can do whatever the frag he wants and so can I! I’ve just _had_ it with you passing judgment on me. Nothing I do pleases you! You criticize my spends, my work, my hobbies, my carriage—oh, let’s not forget my carriage! You had plenty to say about that—and now it’s my One! Did you hear that, Gears? _My One_. And I’m his in return. Let’s try to keep that straight, shall we?”

On that note, he shoved Gears toward the wash-racks and strode out, deciding not to even bother taking Brawn’s little peace offering today. He couldn’t, however, refuse the chrome-alloy cake if he wanted to have the energy for their work.

“If you thought you heard us arguing, Brawn, you were right,” he stated sourly as he strode in and swept one of the plates from the counter as his own, barely looking at the other mech as he leaned almost across him and snatched up utensils to go along with it. “And you’d better be prepared for some big fit on Gears’ part!”

“Hopefully it’ll be over by the time the worksite’s ready,” Brawn mumbled, more to himself than to Huffer.

 _Is that today?_ Huffer realized, stifling a groan as he entered the other room, threw himself down with his plate and jammed half the cake into his mouth, uncaring when some of it was undercooked. Brawn certainly had been in a hurry, but that didn’t matter now. What he had to focus on was the fact that their latest project, the Nexus Archive, was going to be toured by several of its financial backers today and everything needed to be in readiness. Where many cities liked to clean up the worksite and have all of their tools and ongoing upgrades put away or disguised, Culumex was the exact opposite. Oftentimes the rating of the project was determined by how the equipment itself looked, which meant the entire crew would be spending its time cleaning their paraphernalia _and_ the Archive tower itself, including every inch of the soundproof wall panels—inside and out.

Maybe if he slowed down his eating, he would be late.


	10. Chapter 10

Whatever Windcharger had expected for his first graduating job, this wasn’t it. Over the last three orns, Incinerator had taken his unspoken advisor role to an entirely new level, often coming into his pod to check on him or changing the subject abruptly so he could give him a new piece of advice.

Now that he knew what his project was going to be, Windcharger was glad Incinerator was taking the time to do that for him.

Boomerang had been sent to the local building manager and had paid a surprisingly small amount of credits to borrow the schematics Windcharger would need to study for the job. He spent most of the time he was meant to be recharging looking over the plans, trying to memorize them and finding it hard to concentrate.

Amidst all the planning and run-throughs and scenarios that were happening in his processor, Windcharger was most concerned with the fact that Incinerator— and _only_ he—would be accompanying Windcharger to supervise as he performed his duties, which meant there would be no shortcuts taken and no gentle handling offered. He wanted to give his mentor a semblance of pride with this job, but more importantly he wanted to give himself a reason for the pace to respect him.

Oh, they were his coworkers and they appreciated him, but Windcharger had never been able to shake the feeling that there would always be a higher loyalty to each other than to that sixth wheel. It wasn’t entirely unexpected—they were a pace and he wasn’t part of that—but he might as well have been. Since he’d met them, he’d been with them through everything, every step of the way, but sometimes he felt about as close to them as their accountant. It was business, all business.

He was partly in and partly out of their inner circle and sometimes he just couldn’t see the dividing line.

It had been much the same with his friends and family in the Solus sector. Windcharger didn’t often think of them, but this unforeseen nervousness was stirring up old stresses. His creators had wanted him to rise to greater heights with his power, like Incinerator did, but they had introduced him to the worst of environments.

While here with Incinerator and the others, he was a performer; in Solus, he was a _performance_. He still remembered and actively tried to forget the laughter of his sire’s friends when he would try his hardest to impress them. Nothing was ever good enough, not even when he’d used up all of his energy under his efforts.

He’d wanted a place that would accept him as he was and Cin’s pace had given him that. He had also wanted respect and that had yet to come, so he would just have to do his best here to get the job done as quickly and efficiently as possible.

 _Even so_ , he agonized as he sat hunched over the file that had been amassed for him, _I’ll be so exposed! Don’t they want me to stay unseen? Highstake said our reputations in the Underground were dangerous! Doesn’t Incinerator want us to keep our cover?_

When had their troupe become a cover?

He couldn’t think about it. He had to keep his cool so he could do this well and move on to some other job. But if this was his first job as what they called a ‘graduate’, didn’t that mean the assignments given to him in the future could only get harder?

Once he was as familiar with the layout of the building and any escape routes as he was going to get, Windcharger made a point of requesting a scoping-out of any security cameras in the area, so he could be sure to avoid them.

“Also…are there any potential…um, threats?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound as timid as he currently felt.

“Not as far as we know,” Boomerang replied with a shrug. “At least, none that we can’t handle. Any potentials have pace-mates or family members that we can easily lean on and with the way you’ve been obsessing over the layout plans, I think you know _all_ of the escape routes possible, near or far from where you’re going to be. You’re going to do just fine on this one, Charger. I’d bet on it.”

“You may very well lose your credits, Boomer!” Highstake called, snickering. “If Windcharger’s as bad as Kiln was on _his_ first graduate’s job—”

“Are you kidding? By the Primes, I was just 900 vorns old when Cin graduated me!” Kiln complained, pouting at his pace-mate.

“Just goes to show your brother doesn’t mind showing how much he favors you,” Highstake taunted. “You and Strain and Windy.”

“And anyway,” Kiln continued as though he hadn’t even heard, “I got the job done, nobody got hurt, and we got high-grade for the rest of the diun! I don’t know if we’ll be able to say that for Windy, do you?”

“Don’t call me that,” Windcharger pleaded.

Highstake laughed again and then sobered just enough to look imperious. “But then again, who knows if Windy could live up to Incinerator’s favor? Cin might make this operation easy for him and he might still fail!”

“Ah, don’t listen to him,” Boomerang cut in. “He’s just trying to save face because he botched up his first _and_ second! He managed to get stuck twice in the same position, the first time cos he didn’t study the layout well enough, like you do, and the second cos he was in a hurry to make up for the first time!”

“But I’ll get right on that business about scoping out the cameras,” Kiln teased, “because those cameras are _so_ important, Windcharger might make the same mistake too if he doesn’t know exactly where they are!”

Windcharger stared at the three of them arguing over how his operation might go and if asked he would gladly admit that he was unsure how he should react. Kiln and Highstake were either teasing for fun, which ought to be their way of including him, or they were legitimately hoping he would fail. But why would they want that? Was it jealousy? Did Highstake really think Incinerator was biased for him the way he was with his brother and was he bitter about it? How could he respond to this without overreacting?

“Highstake, Kiln, I would recommend you set aside the idea of making a bet on his success,” Strain spoke suddenly from nearby, causing all involved to jump. When had he arrived? “Because if you do, I shall be placing a bet against you and you would lose.”

For whatever reason, Highstake had often made a point of holding his rank above Strain’s in the pace, though the difference between a **trilitare** and a **quanidre** wasn’t much. Windcharger had always found it perplexing that Highstake tried to look down his nose when Strain was at least a helm and a half taller than him. Highstake was doing that now as he questioned, “Oh? And why’s that?”

“For the same reason we endure walkthroughs before every show,” Strain responded simply, tilting his helm and studying all of them intently. “Proper preparation prevents poor performance. My partner is preparing much more efficiently than you did, if what Incinerator tells me of your first assignment is true.”

“I think I have yet to lie to you, my friend,” Incinerator agreed as he entered the room. “Windcharger…it’s time.”

Windcharger blinked several times, but Strain’s words had stifled his alarm enough that he could speak without too much of it in his voice. “We aren’t going to wait for night cover?”

“No, this is time-sensitive and if we wait until this evening, our employer will withhold his funding,” Incinerator explained. “Our accountant tells me we’re doing well, but this job will keep us _secure_ in that.”

Dutifully Windcharger nodded and met each pace-mate’s optics as he headed with their leader toward the door. “Wish me luck, I suppose.”

“Sure thing, Charger,” Kiln said mildly, seeming opposed to continuing the scene after Strain had so blatantly ended it, and certainly not in front of his brother. Windcharger hoped his promise was genuine, but he couldn’t be sure.

Despite Strain and Boomerang’s reassurances, he couldn’t help but lapse back into anxiety as he walked with his mentor through the sector. Most of the inhabitants were working on several different construction sites in varying degrees of progress. Incinerator seemed to notice how his optics traveled to the many different scenes.

“Quite a busy little sector, aren’t they?” he commented.

“Yeah, they are.” Windcharger gave him a sidelong glance, earning a thin smile.

“I’ve arranged the situation with our contact. You needn’t worry about cameras; our employer was kind enough to disable them beforehand and we’ve timed your entrance perfectly. No one will be on hand to witness what you’re going to do. Anyone who would have has been payed off and sent somewhere they’ll be out of the way.”

Windcharger felt something sink a little in his chest, but he wasn’t sure if it was just ongoing nervousness or if he had actually been _hoping_ someone would be there to see. He faltered slightly when the target came into sight; it was easily visible from far away, twelve and a half stories aglow in the sunlight.

“There it is,” Incinerator told him unnecessarily. “The Nexus Archive.”

 _And I’ll be destroying it,_ Windcharger realized all over again. _Destroying someone’s craft…_ He swallowed, rolled his shoulders and flexed his hands, striding toward the empty worksite around the building. If Incinerator and their employer had timed this, he needed to just get it over with. It would be a stretch and would take concentration, but if he simply pressed the building straight down, it would be quick and painless.

He could sense Incinerator’s gaze fixed on him, so he got right to work, positioning himself at the far end of the lot and snagging the thirteenth floor magnetically. He squinted, bringing his hands together to increase the density, and pressed in. It was just like flattening a can of home Visco—

 _Wait, wait, wait. The schematics…Something’s not right_ , Windcharger realized as the ceiling screeched and began cracking, bending in on itself and warping the twelfth story with it. He wasn’t paying attention to that, his optics panning over the surrounding area instead. _What’s different, what’s the change? There’s something—the equipment! Why is it so clean? It’s clean and it’s lined up like it’s…on display!_

“Windcharger!” Incinerator barked abruptly, prompting him to return his interest to the structure. That nanoklik of carelessness had cost him; the six upper levels had escaped his hold and were now swaying without any counterbalance, but before he could even consider his strategy, three folded inward and the other three toppled. Just then, Windcharger zeroed in on the front doors of the building, opening to appease a flash of movement from inside, coming out.

“Primus!” Windcharger cried in horror. “Cin, there’s someone—!”

Too late—the twisted metal and cybre-glass spiraled down toward the unsuspecting victim. In a desperate move, Windcharger threw out a hand to the side, hoping to change the trajectory of the debris, but his movement was too erratic and hit the wrong target. As the three falling stories crashed to their landing, his other hand swept through those that had precariously remained upright, effectively halving them. They crumpled, bowing the base underneath them, and it was then that he heard the screams—muffled, but their terror was clear.

“Oh, Primus, _no!_ ” he screamed again, trying frantically to support what was left of the heavy framework as he rushed forward with no idea of how he planned to stop the catastrophe. He wasn’t given the chance to find out; the smell of ozone alerted him first, followed by a keening wail from all of his systems. Several urgent popups appeared just before his energy died out.

He stumbled, his vision filled with crimson static, and he choked out a last helpless gasp as he fell with the building.


	11. Chapter 11

The first thing Gears was aware of was an intense ringing in his audials, one which swarmed through his processor and kept it from feeding him much data about his surroundings. He had the oddest sensation that he was upside-down, but his sensory net was being lazy and refusing to calibrate enough to sense whatever was keeping him in that position. Slowly he was aware of pain in his right leg, located at the knee and the hip. They felt strained.

Gradually the ringing in his helm petered off into…deep silence. Cautiously he opened his optics and found that he had indeed been upturned. But why—He groaned, groping at whatever was closest to his hands, and used the leverage to pull himself up. His neck and helm ached too, but as he lifted himself by the strength in his arms, he was able to see that a beam lay across his knee. He seemed to remember a sudden jerk; that must have been what strained his hip.

Blinking metal dust out of his optics, he tried to sit up further, but his fingers slipped and he returned to the dangling position, his backstrut hitting a metal panel with a painful clank. He yelped softly, coughed, and tried again with the same result. His processor had been wracked of ideas; it took him a lot longer than it normally might have for him to realize he could kick the beam off with his free leg. He did so, sliding along the panel at his back to land in a heap on the floor of the Archive.

He gasped, coughed once more, and scrambled up as quickly as his aching frame would allow, staring in shock at the wreckage all around him. _Yes…the tour of the investors…_

And the next thing he knew, beams and panels had rained down on top of them. He shivered, clutching his arms protectively around himself and shuffling forward, only to step in something wet. He recoiled from it, pressing one of his hands to his mouth when he saw it was a puddle of energon—more than that, it was a _trail_.

Gears did his best to pick his way through the wreckage, following the droplets, and after what seemed like an eternity he stumbled over a thick cluster of rebar, scraped his shin, and narrowly caught himself on a piece of cybre-glass, pulling it down to shatter as he tried to straighten.

“Wha—who’s there?!” a voice cried out, echoing somewhere to his right.

Gears didn’t announce himself right away, testing the vocals against his coworkers’. “Cloudshift?” he croaked out, rebooting his vocalizer to try again. “It’s Gears…”

“Gears!” Blitzglitch rounded a bend in the debris, holding onto it for support and hissing through his teeth. Gears swallowed hard when he saw the rebar piercing his friend’s thigh, energon trickling in several streams around it. “I—I need help getting Cloudshift out. He’s trapped between a panel and three beams.”

Nodding, Gears pointedly avoided looking at Blitzglitch as he passed him. Cloudshift was awkwardly folded with his knees supporting the panel and his arms shielding his helm from the beams, dangling precariously over him.

As he surveyed the problem, Gears began shaking his helm and immediately regretted it as it rattled his vision. “I…don’t know how we could get him out of there without bringing the beams down on his helm and shoulders, Blitz. Blitz?” He turned to find the other mech had sunk down to the floor, clutching his thigh and venting shallowly.

“Are you okay?” Gears demanded in alarm.

“I’m dizzy,” Blitzglitch murmured, shuttering his optics and shivering.

“Gears, please, get me out of here!” Cloudshift pleaded, redirecting Gears’ attention.

“B-But I—I don’t know how…” Gears stammered, his thoughts going in several different directions. _How long was I out? How long has Blitz been losing energon? How on Cybertron am I gonna get Cloudshift out of that niche? If I had Brawn—Oh…slag! Brawn was in the building too!_

“Brawn?” he burst out, the fear easily scrabbling its way back to the surface, clear in his voice as he spun in a circle and strained his audials. “Brawn! Where are you?!”

The voice that piped up to answer was weak. “Here…Over here…”

Gears plowed his way through the wreck, sometimes scrambling over it, and landed on hands and knees in front of a heap of rubble that would be at least twice his height if he’d had room to stand. He rose as much as he could, remaining doubled over and trembling as he approached the voice, which was still whispering.

“Hey…hey, wake up.”

Gears tried to use some of the splintered beams nearby as a makeshift stool, stepping up to peek around the pile.

It turned out Brawn hadn’t been the one speaking; it was Slipup and from what Gears could see, he was in terrible shape. Gears had to suppress a gasp as he saw the shimmering blue, splattered thickly over Slipup’s chest and free hand, which he was using to sloppily prod at the shoulder of the unconscious mech trapped next to him. Brawn was dreadfully limp and still, unlike Gears had ever seen him.

“Brawn?” he choked out again, trembling so hard that he almost lost his balance on top of the beams. “Brawn, please—Slipup—”

“I’m trying,” Slipup cut him off, his vocals oddly slurring as he shook Brawn again, smearing his shoulder with the energon. “Hey…c’mon, you’re scaring Gears…”

Scaring him was the greatest understatement Slipup could make. He couldn’t move in any direction, clinging to the debris trapping his leader, praying like he never had before. He could sense his spark rising into his throat, moisture welling in his optics and his circuit card working overtime to petrify him. Had he come too late? Would he even get to repay everything that his leader and friend had done for him?

Ultimately, miraculously, Brawn twitched, murmuring something incoherent as his optics came online, dim but kindling brighter light as he woke more fully. Gears found the power in himself to ex-vent, though the tension refused to leave.

“Where—?” Brawn tried to ask, his vents hitching as the same metal dust that had found Gears locked him up too. He coughed harshly, barely shifting the rubble on top of him and Slipup, and tried again. “Where are we?”

“The Archive collapsed!” Gears burst out, catching Brawn’s attention. “H-Here, let me get this off of you—” He tore at the first beam he could grasp, pulling it along and earning pained cries from both victims.

“Stop, Gears, stop!” Brawn implored, earning a swift release. He took a klik or two to wheeze softly and then reminded him, “You don’t know how to remove this safely.” He turned his helm further to glance at Slipup and his optics widened. “Gears…back off.”

For once Gears had no qualms about obeying, scrambling down from his perch to curl up in a heap nearby, not quite out of audial range.

“Slipup,” Brawn murmured. “You—”

“—need to set things straight while I can?” Slipup finished for him, sounding almost resigned but more weary. “I…I know. I’m not making it out of here.”

Gears drew his knees to his chest during the suffocating silence that followed, resting his chin on them and letting his processor race itself. _He’s dying? He’s going to die! Are we all going to die? Who’s going to rescue us?!_

Slipup regained Gears’ attention when he continued, weakly. “I’m a…I _was_ a **trilitare**. Just make sure they handle me gently, so m-my pace can identify me. Give ’em…closure.” There was a pause in which Brawn probably should have said something, but he didn’t, so Slipup added, “And now that you’re…I’m s-sorry for what I did.”

“For what you did when?” Brawn queried what Gears was thinking.

That earned a short laugh. “I tried to kill you and your bootleg—your One.”

Gears cast an incredulous glance over his shoulder toward the gap where he had peeked in and spotted them. When had _that_ happened?

“Oh. The falling platform on our first orn? Well, we survived, obviously. It doesn’t matter now,” Brawn said. “It’s okay.”

“You’re a really bad confessional,” Slipup sighed.

“I’m not trying to be a confessional,” Brawn reminded him, surprisingly mild. “I’d embarrass myself, like you’re doing now.”

“I’m dying; I don’t have t-time to be embarrassed,” Slipup muttered. “But really, I’m sorry. I knew as soon as you indicted Gears that you…you were a _real_ pace, just like me and mine, whether I liked it or not. I just never got the ball bearings to apologize till now.”

“It’s okay,” Brawn repeated sadly. “I’d almost forgotten about it anyway.”

From his tone, Gears could tell it was a lie and he hoped for Brawn’s sake that Slipup didn’t recognize it too. He didn’t seem to, judging by the way he ex-vented, almost in relief.

“Thanks, Unra—Brawn. Good thing it was…faster for you to forgive me than for me to…And I think I just used your name for the first…” He trailed off and Gears heard Brawn gasp softly in grief for the mech who hadn’t even called him by his name for three vorns.

Underneath all of the bravado and pride, that was the type of mech Brawn was.

It turned out that the moisture hadn’t quite left Gears’ optics; he rubbed at them quickly and then studied his hands, still shivering violently. He didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He could hear movement all around, coughing and cries of fear and whimpers of pain, but what if something was intensely wrong with _him?_ He clenched his hands, swallowing a few times through tangled throat cables. Why couldn’t he stop shaking? Why couldn’t he shake off this fear?

What if the circuit card had been damaged? Was that why his emotions were fluctuating so wildly? Was it really just the situation affecting him or was there a deeper cause?

“That beam dented my knee and strained my hip. My backstrut hurts and—and I scraped myself on that rebar back there,” he tallied nervously aloud. “And got the metal dust in my vents and I think it took too long for my optics to calibrate, not to mention the fact that I got knocked out—and my sensory net was off kilter—”

“Shut up, Gears!” Brawn sharply cut through his calculations. “A mech has just _died_. No one cares about your optical calibration! Pull yourself together and find mechs who’re free to help those who can show energon spilled. On your way…” He faltered, panting for a few kliks, and then completed, “…you need to count the dead.”

Gears lifted his helm, optics wide in dismay. “B-But I—”

“ _Stop_ ,” Brawn growled with no room for argument. “Come over here and look at me.”

Rising onto shaky legs, Gears climbed his stairs and peeked tentatively over the debris, stifling something akin to a sob when he saw Slipup’s color was already fading to gray. Brawn allowed him that nanoklik at least before coaxing, “Look at me.”

Once Gears obeyed, blinking several times, he continued a bit more gently, “You need to count the dead and try to identify them. You need to be a witness for when we get out. Me…” Brawn strained slightly, frustration and fatigue passing over his features when there was only a creak as reaction from the rubble. “My arms and chest are pinned. I can’t get out, but I’m not in any immediate danger, so help the others, wherever they are.” When Gears made no move to leave, he ordered again, “There’s nothing you can do here. Go!”

Regretfully Gears crept back down, hugging himself as he traveled back toward Cloudshift and Blitzglitch, all the while agonizing, _Whoever said I could do anything there?_


	12. Chapter 12

“Can you hear me, sir? What’s your name?”

Windcharger’s throat felt dry and he was sure he could taste smoke. He slowly opened his optics to find a femme looming over him, concern written over her features. His gaze drifted to her shoulder, which had been decorated with a red and gold crest. Windcharger tried to place it for several kliks and then he abruptly realized he’d seen it in every sector, whenever there was an emergency.

“Medic…where am I?” he whispered.

“You were in a bad accident,” the rescue bot explained gently, giving one of her coworkers a look that probably meant they had expected amnesia. Windcharger was more concerned with the fact that he _had_ amnesia in the first place. He unfolded his hands, feeling the rough travel pad underneath him, and painfully turned his helm to his right, his vents hitching.

At a distance stood Incinerator, arms folded composedly. He didn’t meet Windcharger’s stare, remaining completely motionless as others rushed past him. Even his wings were unmoving, poised high and wide, almost in accomplishment. Windcharger followed his gaze to the left, optics and mouth opening wide as he saw the wreckage of the archive building, the bent and broken aftermath of what _he_ had done.

“Oh,” he gasped, “Oh, no—”

“Hold still,” the rescue bot urged pleadingly as he struggled to sit up. “You were fortunate enough to get out, but you’ll do yourself a lot of damage if you move too quickly. Lie back down and let our emergency crews rescue your friends.”

 _Fortunate to get out? My friends? They think I’m a victim!_ This only encouraged Windcharger to struggle more strongly, wincing when he finally managed to reach an upright position and inadvertently pulled on the IV in his arm. He could feel medical-grade dielectric oil recharging him and while he craved that after a burnout, he couldn’t focus on it now. He didn’t and would never deserve it.

It seemed none of them knew he had been the one to cause such destruction; otherwise they wouldn’t be treating him. They’d be tearing him apart. He glanced around wildly, watching mechs and femmes swarm the site from all directions, some on their own—bystanders, most likely—and the rest in small clusters.

 _Paces_ , Windcharger realized, swallowing hard. _The paces of the victims_. How many had been inside? He rose from his pad. The medic seemed to realize she wouldn’t be able to stop him, so she insisted he take the IV rack with him on his route across the site so he could survey the damage he had caused.

The base level of the building could barely be seen underneath the rubble of the other twelve-and-a-half stories. Some of the floors were partially intact, enough to keep some of their original shape, and the rest were warped beyond recognition. Windcharger only realized the mangled framework had been full floors when he stared at them for several minutes. He started to venture closer but recoiled as soon as his foot crunched in the littering of cybre-glass. It was everywhere, as though hundreds of tiny stars had fallen around the destruction. They were sparkling in the sunlight, but it did nothing to draw the attention away from the cause.

All at once he felt gripped to just… _call_. Without even turning, he pressed a hand to his audial and dialed on his comm. link, which he had been given mere orns before this assignment.

“Thank you for not approaching me, Windcharger; that could very well give us away,” Incinerator said as greeting.

“Why…why aren’t you helping?” Windcharger whispered as more members of the emergency response rushed onto the scene.

“Because I need to watch them and be sure it all comes down,” Incinerator answered simply.

Windcharger stiffened, feeling his tanks roil in him. His mentor sounded so neutral, so apathetic about this devastation, like he didn’t even care about anything but the job. Finally with a shaky hand Windcharger hung up, clinging to the IV rack for balance as his legs threatened to come out from underneath him. Dazedly he watched the squads hosing down any debris that had caught fire.

After a minute or two, he pinpointed a mech who was tearing through rubble as fast as the flames were eating it. He was working dangerously close to the fire, as a matter of fact, but he didn’t seem to care. He was single-minded and Windcharger noted with a stirring of awe that there weren’t any worse collapses as he worked. He seemed to discern how everything had been shaped before it came down. He must be an engineer, and he looked familiar…

Sharply contracting his vents, Windcharger took another step back. The show…The last time he’d seen this mech, he’d been laughing. He was part of that young pace of three, fighting over the rust sticks.

 _He’s a One,_ Windcharger recalled, glancing around. _Where’s the leader and the **sequein**?_ It came to him as soon as the other mech uncovered a gap and peered into it, desperation clear in his demeanor even from this distance. Windcharger waited, silently praying as he was sure the other was. There was nothing, so the engineer trembled and moved onto the next section with more savagery, if that was possible.

Once the engineer moved out of his line of sight, Windcharger stared sadly at the gap just uncovered, perking up in disbelief as he picked out movement from inside. A mech clambered out onto the ground, clutching his leg, which had been pierced by rebar and was streaked with energon. Fortunately Windcharger didn’t need to point him out; what seemed like an entire medical team swarmed the new escapee, carrying him toward the center they had set up on the other side of the area.

The engineer noticed as well, following for a number of yards before the medics turned him away. He stood alone for a long series of kliks and then doubled his fists, sprinting back to the wreckage and returning to his work, occasionally peeking at the gap to see if there would be anyone else coming out to freedom. Somehow Windcharger just knew he would be one of the mechs who didn’t care if he was exhausted, who would keep working until his pace was found, no matter their condition.

Windcharger couldn’t bear to watch him anymore, turning his attention to the victim who had just escaped. The medics were being forced to hold back several of the onlookers, who were anxious to catch a glimpse of the new arrival, wondering if it was one of their own. After some choice words and pleas were shouted from the physicians, Windcharger found it easy to pick out the pace-leaders; they were the mechs ordering the others back, assuring them that they would find out what they wanted to know but only if the others backed off and stopped making such a scene.

One pace at a time, the crowd let off, disappointed to see that it wasn’t their loved one. Windcharger approached, melding into their midst. It may make him sick, but he needed to see the mech’s injuries. They had been his fault, after all; he needed to be sure he was going to make it. There was one pace that stayed, a group of four, reaching to hold onto the victim whenever the emergency workers weren’t in their way.

The wounded mech was predictably in shock, sluggishly trying to respond to his pace-mates’ touch and the medics’ questions at the same time, before recalling something urgent he needed to do. He clutched the nearest medic’s shoulder, jerking him down to whisper to him. The medic tensed, groping for a data pad and typing furiously once he eventually found it.

Until they were done with that, Windcharger watched the others in the area. The rest of the paces, discontent with the find, were now redirecting their energies elsewhere, trying to move pieces of the wreckage and causing small chain reactions.

The engineer Windcharger recognized had leapt up onto a larger piece of debris and was screaming at the inexperienced mechs to stop before they made it worse, only to yelp and stagger down as one mech targeted the piece he was standing on, ripping it away and bringing everything behind it down into a heap, blocking all of the nearest gaps, including the one the injured mech had used to emerge. The engineer righted himself, face dark, and charged at the larger mech, propelling him away with astonishing force.

“You’re going to get our pace-mates killed!” he howled, loud enough that Windcharger could hear him across the way. “Is that what you want?!” The larger mech, previously stiff and indignant, slumped in defeat, and the engineer took pity on him, guiding him back toward his pace, who took him gladly.

Others tried to keep working until the squads of trained mechs repeated the process, reminding them that they were doing everything they could and if they interfered further, it would just take longer.

Windcharger startled when someone on a bullhorn spoke, shaky but clear. “Everyone, from our rescued victim here, Blitzglitch, we have a developing list of the departed, which he received from one of the other witnesses inside.” Almost everything went silent, aside from the certified rescue bots still working, and the medic hesitated, staring at all of the worried, pleading faces around him. Rebooting his vocalizer, he began softly, “The list consists of…Aftersling, Actuator, Barrage, Comet, Crossglider, Glowplug, Gears…” He paused, squinting at the list and then revising, “Sorry, _Gearslip_. Quickcut, Rhicycle, Outburst, and Slipup. Remember that this list is…in progress. I’m very, very sorry for your losses.” Shuttering his optics, he stepped down from his perch and slunk toward the safety of his fellow workers.

Eleven bots, Windcharger realized, his spark breaking as he lived through the nanoklik of preemptive shock. Eleven bots’ lives were on _his_ hands.

Weakly he sank down onto the ground and several others followed suit, several of them dissolving into silent tears, others wailing their anguish to shatter the air. There were those who refused to believe it, screaming that the names were wrong, that there was no chance their mate would lose their life and that they were still in there somewhere, that they could still be saved. There were those who had to be restrained, kicking and cursing at the pace-mates they still had, who wept as they dragged them away. The leaders were visibly straining to be strong for their paces and some of them failed, stunning the others by revealing their grief in its full force, however it manifested itself. How many of them had lost their Ones?

Windcharger had brought this tragedy on them. He stared at his hands, limp and loose in his lap, and he didn’t care when his vision blurred. If he’d had a choice, he would never use his hands again.


	13. Chapter 13

Brawn could only tell how much time had passed by the ache of his internals, craving some kind of fuel. He hadn’t eaten in joors and who knew where the cubes offered to the financial backers had gone? They’d likely either broken or bounced away somewhere, never to be found.

He couldn’t focus on that, he reminded himself, straining to assess the height and weight of the wreckage pinning him down. Every time he shifted too much, his vents kicked up and he coughed, only cycling and recycling the metal dust in his systems. It hurt more than he cared to admit and he could do nothing about it but wriggle more restlessly for a while longer, which stirred further fits.

The frame beside him didn’t help matters either.

 _Don’t look. Don’t look_. But even if he didn’t, even if he kept his optics fixed directly and unwaveringly on the ceiling, the reminder was there. The sickly smell of too much energon spilled tickled his sensory net almost as much as the blasted dust and the questions he should’ve expected arose as well to keep him occupied. Slipup was someone’s pace-mate, someone’s friend, and now he was dead, like a switch had been pulled—ironically, like a cable had been cut.

At the very least Brawn was relieved that he’d told Gears to back off as soon as he had; only a minute or so later, his pace-mate had been spared from watching the life fade from their coworker, as he’d been forced to.

Brawn was doing his best to stuff away the feelings of helplessness, of utter uselessness and failure. Here he was with a frame he couldn’t have saved, who he hadn’t even _liked_ during his life, and he was blaming himself for his death. It wasn’t fair, none of it. If only his arms had been free…If only he’d been positioned differently when it all came down…If only none of them had been here at all.

His guilt wasn’t just for Slipup; it was also for Gears. Whenever Gears returned to him to give a report about the others, fear was tangible in his voice and Brawn could do absolutely nothing about it except give him more direction and encourage him to put it further aside. He knew there would be only so much of that Gears could take; he’d been forced to do it for so long without his circuit card and here was his leader who he trusted, commanding him to do it again because Brawn himself couldn’t take action.

It was said sometimes that if someone cried that there was a fire, any sane Culumexian’s optics would go straight to what mattered to them most, whether that was their sparkling or their craft or their home or their pace. When he’d heard the first screams, Brawn had looked directly for the latter and what worried him most now was that he’d found only one and it wasn’t _the_ One. He repeatedly tamped down his panic.

 _He wasn’t here, he was outside_ , he reminded himself firmly. But what if he’d come back and Brawn hadn’t noticed? What if he had returned and was trapped somewhere too, somewhere no one had found him? Was he scared? Was he alone?

Was he…?

For once he was glad that his systems hiccupped, seizing him in another coughing fit. He was able to put his processor to the ache instead of finishing that thought. Frustrated, he rebooted his vocalizer several times and shut his optics tightly, trying to quiet himself. He regretted sending Gears away right now and Slipup’s…absence…was tangible. He just wanted someone to talk to him right now, someone who wouldn’t judge if his systems stole his answers.

 _Huffer wouldn’t have judged that_ , he recalled. _And he would be talking to me right now, making sure I knew he and Gears were staying safe while they’re helping out other people. And he’d be moving this debris off, so I could actually sit up. He’d probably even fish Slipup’s frame out too. He’d help me figure out what happened to make the place collapse._

Perhaps he was expecting too much of the One in his musings. _Just the talking then. He’d talk to me, tell me it’s not my fault and that it’s gonna be okay. He…might try to make me feel like I’m somewhere else. We’d just talk about anything to pass the time, something we could share. That’s all he’s wanted._

Brawn swallowed, opening his optics and staring at the ceiling as realization struck. That was all he wanted, just to talk. It was just time together, it was easy enough to do, they both had time for it, and yet…

 _Why didn’t he tell me?_ one side of him demanded. _I would’ve made time if he told me how important it was! He just didn’t tell me!_

 _Because I didn’t listen,_ the other side agonized. _I was too wrapped up in…nothing! I wanted everything to be nice and I ruined it instead. I thought Gears was the bigger problem, that I could deal with him and ignore Huffer cos we’d been through all of that emotional stuff before, when we did the Ritus. Once isn’t enough! I showed him I trusted him but didn’t give him a reason to trust me. What kind of leader does that?!_

 _A clueless, useless one_. On that both sides agreed and he coughed again, just once, refusing to believe that it could’ve been something else.

“Brawn?” Gears’ voice distracted him from his panic at least for now. He blinked up at the gap where his **sequein’s** face appeared. “I…found eleven dead, if we include Slipup.”

“Of course we include Slipup,” Brawn muttered croakily, hesitating at Gears’ strangled silence and then questioning, “What else?”

“I can’t find Blitzglitch,” Gears admitted in a small voice. “He said he was going to try finding a way out. He went off by himself and he…he hasn’t come back.”

Processing this, Brawn wondered, “Maybe he _did_ find a gap and got through to the outside.”

“So why wouldn’t he lead the rescuers to us?” Gears fretted. “He might’ve…wandered into a bad area, Brawn.”

Brawn audibly heard Gears swallow and answered, “We need to know what happened. Didn’t you say he has a leg injury? He’s probably being treated and’ll come back for us once he’s okay. But if we want to know for sure…you have to look for him, little buddy.”

“What?” Gears sounded dismayed at the very thought of it. “Brawn, I—I can’t just—I’m getting low on energy, I can’t risk a long walk like that! What if I get lost and run out of energy? What if—”

“What’s your energy percentage?” Brawn cut in.

“Seventy-three percent—”

“That’s not _low_ , Gears!” Brawn burst out, further frustration mounting as his suspicions were confirmed. “You’re perfectly fit to travel, so buck up and do it!”

“No!”

That was not the answer Brawn had expected. “Excuse me?”

Even though only Gears’ helm was visible, he could see Gears’ flinch, but his vocals were harder as he explained himself. “I’ve been doing so much, Brawn. I’ve done everything that you asked cos I know you’re trapped and I’m free, but I haven’t had a nanoklik of rest since I woke up and I think I deserve at least that much.”

“ _Rest?_ ” Brawn spat. “Bots are dying, ones we know and work with! You were in command of them once; don’t you care about getting them out? You think if I were free, I’d be spending my time resting?”

“Well, I’m not you!” Gears countered.

“Of course you aren’t, **sequein** ,” Brawn growled. “And that means you need to follow my orders. You need to know how to take orders without questioning them and being contrary to absolutely everything!”

“I know, Brawn, okay? _I_ know! I’ve taken orders since I can remember!” Gears cried. “Of all mechs, I thought _you_ would want me not to!”

“Then you obviously don’t know what you agreed to. You agreed to trust me, let me lead you, let me give you guidance when I need to. That’s what I need to do right now cos I know that if I let you rest, you’ll never get up! C’mon, you know it’s true! We’re in a _crisis_ and this is no time to give in to every fraggin’ whim of your fraggin’ hypochondria!”

Maybe he was being too harsh, but he couldn’t go on, his vents stalling yet again. He gasped as the gritty dust filtered through, sticking and cycling loose in all the wrong places. Gears remained respectfully silent while he tried to suppress the storm and failed miserably.

Coughing only dried his internals further, which is why the stirring of fluid in his throat didn’t surprise him; it was almost welcome. He rebooted his vocalizer more gently this time, turning his face away so Gears wouldn’t have to see the thin, diluted energon he spat out. Too much recycling grated on the tanks, drew some blood, but it obviously wasn’t something Gears could handle right now.

“Please, just…just get out and be safe. Just get me my One,” he whispered, returning his optics toward the gap, fully prepared to set aside his vanity and plead, only to see that somewhere along the line, while he was preoccupied, Gears had disappeared.

“Here,” offered an unfamiliar voice somewhere beyond the gap, startling him. “I can see your feet. Let me dig them out a little.”

Once that was done, Brawn wiggled his feet to restore energon flow and waited for the new face to appear. Sure enough it did and Brawn recognized him as one of the financial investors. “Thanks…I…I’m sorry, I met so many of you, I don’t remember your name,” he admitted softly.

The other mech shrugged. “Just call me Rusty.” At the puzzled look Brawn gave him, he chuckled lightly and fished around for something, straining to reach an arm over the wreckage and hand him a rust stick. Brawn stared at it longingly, fully aware of how empty his tanks were, and looked away before he could tempt himself long enough to struggle and make his condition worse.

“When I get my arms out,” he sighed, “I’ll take you up on that.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Rusty hastily retracted the treat and explained, “My pace-leader is addicted to these and I do mean _addicted_. I keep them on hand for him.”

Brawn considered, commenting lightly, “That…sounds like something a One would do.”

Rusty brightened with an appreciative smile. “You’re right, I’m a One. My leader’s not in here with us, thank Primus, but I know he’ll be outside and once we’re rescued I’ll gladly give them over to his loving care. They calm him down sometimes and if that means I can spare him fussing over me, I’m all for that.”

Brawn fidgeted again, discomfited with more than just his position, but it was clear by some twist that this was an opportunity—perhaps one straight from Primus. It meant he needed to set aside his reservations. He briefly let his gaze drift and then questioned tentatively, “N-Not to be nosy, but…is your relationship good? It sounds good. How much do you talk? Are there, uh, any…goals you’re working on?”

Rusty looked a bit taken aback at the interrogation, but Brawn was grateful to him when he replied, “Well…yes, I’d like to think we’re in a good place. Our main goal right now is each other, as a matter of fact, because a vorn or so ago he’d practically given up on good terms with me.” His smile became a bit more rueful, regret clear in his optics. “He thought I had given up first. I was always bringing work home with me, you see, and never giving him any thought. Slag, I’d been hurting him for vorns and I didn’t even know it! He never said a word. What do you do with a pace-mate like that?”

Brawn gaped at him for a long minute, now quite certain of Primus’ handiwork, and then regained himself. “What _did_ you do?” he asked meekly.

“Well, of all mechs to bring it to my attention, I never expected it to be our **quiendus**! He’s a spitfire, that one. He practically rattled all three fuelings out of me, the way he shook me down. Once I realized everything he was pointing out was true, I went to my pace-leader and I told him I needed to go, that I wasn’t worthy of staying. Truth is, I was trying to punish myself for not taking notice sooner, but he told me I couldn’t do that. He said it would just take me further away from him and that was the last thing he wanted.”

Rusty hesitated, sighing heavily and resting his helm against the wall of debris. “Once my deal with your manager went through, I planned on surprising him with a trip to Solus. He’s always wanted to go there, but now that the deal’s fallen to pieces, it’s going to be impossible. I…I _still_ don’t know if I’m doing enough to make up for all that time I had my priorities wrong.”

“Are you kidding?” Brawn demanded, earning a startled look. “Take it from me as a pace-leader, alright? He didn’t give up on you and if I were him, I wouldn’t either. A mech who carries around rust sticks just because his leader likes them isn’t something to take for granted. My One—” Brawn smiled just slightly. “He’d probably do the same if he knew I wanted it, but…we haven’t been talking.” Rusty frowned in concern and Brawn assured him, “But that’s going to change, I swear. It’s going to change. He’s probably out there with your leader.”

“Then let’s make a deal,” Rusty suggested. “I’ll try to hold off the mob of medics, you try to find them. We can share the rust sticks.”

Brawn nodded vigorously, confessing, “I’d shake your hand to seal the deal, but…”

“I’ll take your word for it.”


	14. Chapter 14

“It should’ve been me,” Huffer murmured in a pedal tone as he worked, tearing through a panel with the ease worthy of his strength. “I should’ve been in there. It should’ve been me, I should’ve been in there…”

He’d repeated this mantra countless times as sunlight faded in favor of the lighting given off by generators, courtesy of the emergency teams and the civilian pace-mates. The mantra never made him feel any better, but it was all he could do to keep himself together. Blaming himself made him focus on what he was fighting for right now and if he let go, if he broke down, it would be just another minute that his pace-mates were trapped somewhere under all that was left of their creation.

At least they were alive. Huffer had nearly been given a spark flux when the medic reading the list had fumbled, announcing Gears’ name among the dead. He had been rooted where he was, a wave of grief pounding him, before the medic had gone about correcting himself with ‘Gearslip’. It had been a near miss and it had made the situation very, very real to him, even realer than before.

His pace-mates, _his_ leader and _his_ **sequein** , were counting on him. It was like that time he’d gotten trapped in an underground tunnel and had dug his way out, except this was in reverse. He was digging in and it was for them. He couldn’t let them down; he had to be brave.

The only reason he wasn’t in there with them was because Hightop had left the investors’ tour early. He had mistakenly assumed they had no further questions for him and had gone home to his own pace, hoping to take some downtime, and Huffer had hurried to catch up with him and bring him back. Not for the first or last time, he relived the horror of returning to find the building a heap of rubble. For a dreadful amount of time which he hadn’t counted, he’d looked around to see if any of his coworkers were trying to salvage something, only to find none of them in sight.

Realization had hit him and Hightop simultaneously and while his manager called emergency services, Huffer dove straight into demolition. He wasn’t an expert at this, but he knew the building as well as he knew the hands that had gone into making it. Further sorrow stirred as he pulled the tangle apart piece by piece, remembering the care that had gone into all of this, only to be brought down like _this_.

“Excuse me, what can I do?” a civilian femme demanded. Distractedly Huffer waved a hand in the general direction of the crowd, not even looking at her.

“Stay back,” he suggested tersely, trying to focus on what he was doing. Even if he knew the surroundings, it took focus to match his memories to the jumble he was disassembling and he had no time to deal with any more civilians. The mech who had caused that small avalanche earlier had done enough damage!

“Listen to me,” the femme ordered, irritating him for a nanoklik further until he heard her say, “My name is Polevault and I used to work for this company with my brother, Catapult. Now I’ve come a long way and I _know_ I can do something to help, so tell me what it is!”

Rising to an upright position, ignoring the stinging ache down his backstrut, Huffer turned to gape at her. “Polevault?” he echoed, recalling the name from a conversation long since past and, he had believed, forgotten. “You—you worked under Gears, when he was in charge!”

“Yes, that’s right,” she confirmed sternly, folding bulky arms over her chest. “Where’s Gears? Let me talk to him. I’m sure he’ll be quite happy to give me orders!”

Huffer recollected himself, admitting almost shyly, “I…I’m his pace-mate.” Her expression would have been priceless if he had thought about it long enough, but he didn’t, continuing more hurriedly, “He was in the building when it came down! I’m looking for him and our leader!”

On that note, Polevault buried her hands in the debris and Huffer was relieved to have a partner, one who didn’t have another agenda in this and didn’t have patients to attend to. She had come at just the right time. Huffer could hear emergency workers taking the nanoklik to whisper in surprise about the steadiness and brisk speed of their work, but he tried to block it out. It would only stay steady if he didn’t even consider being flattered.

One thing continued to torture him: the medic had said the list of the departed was ongoing. Huffer was one of the mechs who couldn’t believe either of his mates would simply give up on life, but what if they had no choice? What if one of them had lost too much energon and he got there too late? Worse, what if he found them in their final time and arrived only to watch them slip away?

He faltered at that idea, adrenaline and focus threatening to drain away. His hands quivered and he vented deeply, trying to let his fear run its course and then leave him. Polevault was still persevering and she wasn’t even part of their pace. Could he do no less?

It was then that Polevault exclaimed, “There’s a little gap here; help me widen it!” Huffer forced himself to obey, peeling back stiff layers of beams and cybre-glass, only to freeze as soon as he heard a small cry. Polevault stilled as well, glancing at him unsurely, and then called, “Who’s down there?”

There was a long pause and then a weak voice called back, “P-Polevault? You…came to help?”

“Cloudshift!” Polevault realized, stuffing an arm down and hauling up the mech, who was babbling about how he had pried himself loose from a little niche but he’d hurt his opposite shoulder in the process. Huffer winced as he witnessed the mangled shoulder for himself, hollering at the medics to come and assist. A squad, plus a trio Huffer could surmise were Cloudshift’s pace-mates, came to relieve them of their find.

Other finds followed soon enough, some just barely alive, others…not as fortunate. Though Huffer was pleased that they could reunite some paces and give a body to others, it still wasn’t what he truly wanted. Polevault tried to take his processor off of what he was missing.

“What role do you hold here?” she questioned as she precisely snapped a beam and removed the halves from the hole.

“Well, actually, I was your replacement,” Huffer admitted, earning a raised eyebrow and a slight smile.

“From what I’m seeing, you were a good choice,” she said mildly. “Though I…miss it from time to time.” Noticing that Huffer expected her to explain, she continued, more softly, “I needed time to get over Catapult’s death. It was unexpected and…he was my brother. I have a feeling I know what those poor bots over there are going through.” She cast a mournful glance at the paces clustered around grayed frames and then lowered her gaze. “But Gears was kind enough to let me go—really, it _was_ a kindness. As soon as I saw this on the Onyx sector news, I just knew I had to come and help.”

“It’s a good thing you did,” Huffer told her what she already knew, somber and yet trying not to sink too far into what could be considered dread. “Maybe, when he sees you, Gears will crack a smile for a change.”

Polevault gave him an incredulous look. “‘For a change’? You’re joking, right? He’s _always_ smiling!” Huffer didn’t get a chance to answer, as a voice somewhere below them cried out, more strongly than Cloudshift and others had and very familiar.

“Lights! I see lights! Can you hear me up there?!”

Huffer barely dared to hope, peering into the hole and choking out through tangled throat cables, “Gears?!” All it took was that one word and a red and blue frame was launching itself at him, foot thrusters igniting to propel him. Huffer caught hold of him tightly, sobbing in relief and repeating, “Gears, Gears! You’re okay, you’re _alive_ and you’re _okay!_ ” He was concerned at how hard the **sequein** was shaking and how fast his spark pulse raced, but it only served to cement his belief: he was moving, _alive_.

“Not—not for long if you crush me,” Gears wheezed, earning a quick release. The supplies manager sank weakly into a sitting position against the wreckage, venting heavily, and his gaze trailed toward the femme who knelt on his opposite side. His optics went very wide and bright and he sat up straighter, gasping, “Primus…Polevault?”

“Gears,” she greeted warmly, a bit startled when he abruptly flung himself to his feet, shivering more strongly but pawing at Huffer’s arm, not just to get his attention but also for balance.

“I can help,” he stated, swaying but seeming alert. “Brawn’s still down there; I want to help.”

Huffer was frankly astounded that Gears would be volunteering himself when he hadn’t even submitted himself to medical treatment. It was…out of his new character, but drastic times could make anything out anyone. Wary of this new behavior, Huffer questioned, “Gears, what’s your energy percentage?”

“S-Sixty-seven percent. Why?”

“That’s…low for you,” Huffer told him cautiously. “Go and get yourself an IV.” He had a feeling he would regret bolstering Gears’ fantasies about his health, but in this case he wasn’t sure it would be a bad idea. Polevault seemed to take the hint and rose as well.

“I’ll escort him and be right back.” Taking Gears’ arm and tugging him away, she asked, “So, Gears, how are you feeling?”

“How am I feeling?” he echoed, sounding devastated to hear his energy was low. Huffer sighed and shook his helm, returning his attention to his labor with much more hope. One down, one left.

It was about a breem later that he managed to roll the framework of two upper platforms away from the mountain and reveal the ceiling of the base level, most of it concaved. Cautiously he crept toward the area where it bowed in most and cracked, thanking Primus for his slender frame as he slid between three panels and toward the crack, urging, “If anyone down there can hear me, tell me your name!”

There was a gasp which set off a wet chain of coughing and, speaking over it, another voice. “Hello? Are you a rescue worker? My name is Rusty! We’re here, Brawn and I!”

Huffer felt the tears he’d tried to stifle with Gears threaten him again. “I’m his One,” he mewled, almost imploringly.

“Ahh.” Rusty’s voice was soft, terrifyingly unreadable. “He told me about you.”

“Is he…” Huffer swallowed a preemptive sob. “Is Brawn okay?”

The coughing trailed off and he waited tensely. He wasn’t disappointed, as he heard a vocalizer finish rebooting and then gasp out, “Huffer?”

“Brawn!” he burst out, dragging his hands over his wet optics and repeating, “Brawn, th-thank Primus! I’m going to get some help and we’re c-coming in for you! Don’t worry, we’ll have you out soon!”

“No!” Brawn coughed, causing Huffer to tense as he heard some creaking from whatever was down there. His leader coughed again several more times, spat, and croaked out, “You have to stay…I have t-to talk to you—”

“Brawn,” Huffer cut him off again, more tenderly. “I promise I’ll be right back. I’m going to get a medic and some friends and we’ll be right there. I’ll be the first mech you see, I swear.”

It seemed an eternity passed before that was made true and by the way Brawn made a beeline for him as soon as he was upright, he’d felt the same way. Huffer didn’t have time for…anything, really, as he was abruptly being lifted off the ground and he had a feeling he knew what Gears had gone through as his vents were crushed against a sturdy but battered frame. With a struggle he returned the embrace, though he could barely get his arms fully around Brawn’s back. He smelled like smoke and metal dust.

“You never do that again, little One,” Brawn mumbled. Huffer felt the order vibrate through his frame, as well as the badly stifled hitch in Brawn’s vents that followed, so he let himself absorb that instead of asking what he meant. Over Brawn’s shoulder, he saw Rusty smiling tiredly and then glancing around, perking up and rushing away when he spotted someone Huffer couldn’t see.

It was then that the medics intervened, pulling the two of them apart. “Hands off!” Brawn growled and then tensed a nanoklik later, coughing weakly, and Huffer held up his hands pacifyingly.

“Let them do what they need to,” he encouraged. “You need treatment and I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

“Actually, Huffer,” Hightop interrupted, stepping toward him and gesturing for him to follow, “I need to talk with you. It’ll be brief.”

Sighing lightly, Huffer gave Brawn a pleading glance and they both resigned themselves to their fates, Brawn mouthing, “Come soon,” and Huffer nodding. Hightop pulled him past the medical center and the setup nearby, where several of the paces and bystanders were handing out energon cubes and other fuels for the workers.

“Huffer,” Hightop began with a deep sigh, “I’m going to need you. Several of our engineers were lost, as you heard. I’ve been considering you for a chief engineer for some time and it seems you’re the only one _left_ who qualifies. We need to get the wreckage cleared and the archive rebuilt as soon as possible.”

“I—I beg your pardon?!” Huffer stammered. “We can’t just cover this up like it’s never happened!”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Hightop warned. “I know it’s going to take time for all of us and you take the time. Take the time you need to recover, but you know as well as I do that this building…it symbolized our sector’s _hope_. It was the hope we had of rising to our proper place among the other sectors and now that’s it gone…We need to restore that hope in the midst of this tragedy. Just like the Tangle of Sectors, remember? And the collapse of that medical facility on the weak foundation before that.”

Huffer remained silent, but nodded. Both tragedies had resulted in many more medical centers being built, many more lives being proactive and being saved. Hightop wasn’t sparkless; he just wanted to help the sector recover. Hightop gave him a sympathetic smile and gripped his shoulder.

“Congratulations about your pace-mates, Chief Engineer. **Primine** was watching over you,” he vowed before heading back toward the crowds. Huffer watched him go, accepted an energon cube a civilian gave him, and moved toward the housing lots across the way from the site. Here it was quieter and he had a nanoklik to sort out his thoughts.

He had come _this close_ to losing his pace, but it was as Hightop had said, he decided as he downed the energon. The “Divine Prime”, meaning Primus, had been guarding the three of them. Why Primus had thought them deserving, he didn’t know, but he was grateful.

Not only that, he was exhausted, Huffer realized, wiping a hand down his face as he disposed of the empty cube in the nearest alley’s chute. Perhaps the medics would let him use one of the berths left over so he could recharge. He could set it up near where his pace-mates were being treated. After this, he wouldn’t be straying far from them again. It felt as though the cube had done nothing for his energon levels; in fact, he was feeling rather dizzy.

His legs surprised him by abruptly folding underneath him and his arms wouldn’t cooperate to break his fall. He didn’t feel any pain, but the idea of getting up faded away as soon as it surfaced. The lights and colors from the site blurred together, only to be blotted out by the darkness of a shape. The shape was odd, differently molded from…something else he was used to. He couldn’t quite grasp what was different about it.

“Now,” the shape instructed simply.

 _Now…what?_ The engineer wondered hazily, a nanoklik before he felt two long, long arms slither up his body and drag him back the way they had come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of these cameos from Joy In All Circumstances! The NET Bots, Twincharge, Polevault -- It's nice seeing some familiar faces.
> 
> And on a darker note, fun times with Incinerator! *insert heavy sarcasm* You can guess who's not going to be very happy...


	15. Chapter 15

“Thank you for your help. We really appreciate everything you’ve done,” one of the pace-leaders murmured gratefully. Windcharger barely nodded in return, handing him an energon cube and turning away so the mech wouldn’t have to see his grief.

 _Everything I’ve done…Nothing can make up for what I did_.

Just as that mech was thanking him, others nearby were cursing whoever was responsible, when they didn’t even know it was him. Right now, everyone was hailing him as the one who had come up with the idea of handing out fuels to the rescue workers. It was the only valid idea he could supply to keep his processor off of what he had done.

He had killed fellow Culumexians. He had killed his _people_ and the knowledge that he hadn’t known they were in the building helped absolutely nothing. He had been weak and reckless and hadn’t seen all of the variables, despite his ‘meticulous’ preparation.

If he had just been smarter and faster and stronger, none of this would have happened. There were times as he was divvying up the energon and the food that he found it hard not to scream in rage and agony. These were the victims of his—his aggression and here they were, thinking he was a hero for helping them pick up pieces after a tragedy.

There were those he couldn’t help as well; the ones with optics discolored by coolant, hiding their faces and clinging to each other. Windcharger noted that the ranks gravitated together, quite stereotypically. The Ones clutched the hands of their leaders, trying to support them as they had vowed to during the Ritus. The **quanidre** could be found arguing with the **trilitare** or holding the **quiendus** , trying to shield both of said pace-mates when it was already too late. There would be no saving them from this; it was their loss too and it was just as painful to endure through their optics.

It was ridiculous to be considering it now, but at this present time there was nothing Windcharger wanted more than a pace who would accept him and what he had done, who would try to forgive him.

 _No one would do that for you_ , he scorned himself. _They would sooner Unravel a pace to distance themselves from you than forgive you! No one could accept someone—some_ thing _—so…despicable._

“Clear!”

Windcharger jumped at the holler from the nearby medical center. Why did the center and the energon handout have to be so close? He had done his best not to look in that direction as he served those he had brutalized, but now he could see flashes of light from the chief medic’s palms. His augmentation must be electroshock charges, Windcharger mused numbly. It was good for the profession he was in.

“Clear!” the medic cried again, wincing and then sighing when he received no reaction from his patient. The pace-leader clutched the medic’s arm, shaking him and pleading for him to try again, but the medic shook his helm solemnly.

 _Twelve_ , Windcharger realized. The count of the dead, the count against him, had just risen to twelve. He turned his optics away and his vents stuck when he saw another medic, far younger, cursing over another frame, just graying.

The senior medic was pulling him back, trying to give the pace some privacy with the body, but the apprentice was reaching out to the pace just crippled, begging their forgiveness for being unable to save their mate.

 _It isn’t you who should beg_ , Windcharger wished he could say to that medic, shuddering once, twice, and then turning away to purge. He couldn’t bring anything up, so he simply retched until tears welled and spilled down his face. Blindly he fumbled for the IV cord still hooked to his arm and tore at it until it came out, clenching his teeth against the pain and then rising, throwing the cord by the rack it belonged to nearby. He left.

The walk back to his pod was long, even longer because his feet refused to take him where he wanted to go. He kept stumbling, feeling muddled, almost like he was overcharged, but he knew it was because he was emotionally wrung out. For a nanoklik he wished he could be like Incinerator, indifferent and uninterested in something so natural as death and loss, so he wouldn’t have to feel this way. Then he halted, leaning against the nearest wall and shaking his helm violently.

He couldn’t think like that or even come close to considering that. It felt as though every single mech out of the twelve—no, _thirteen_ —had been part of him, an important part, and he deserved to suffer for their losses.

Sunlight was just peeking over the horizon when Windcharger reached his pod. He had spent nearly all night at that site and it still didn’t feel like enough. He considered going back there to help for a while longer, but eventually decided he would need recharge to be of any decent aid—if he could recharge with those grayed frames replaying in his processor.

He rested his chamfron against the door of his pod for a long minute, almost afraid to go in and unsure of why. Perhaps it was the normalcy waiting inside. Everything in there would be as he knew it; he could navigate simply by memory if he had to. If he could give that normalcy, that everyday routine back to his victims, he would do it in a pulse of his spark. Maybe that was another part of his punishment. While others would never be the same, his home should be just as he remembered it.

With trembling hands he opened the door and stepped in, only to leap back and press against the door he had closed behind him, optics and mouth opening wide in shock.

There was the One for the pace of three slumped on his berth, clamped in stasis cuffs. Windcharger crept toward him, nudging the leg that had slid off the berth with his foot. There was no reaction the first time, so he repeated the action more insistently and still received nothing. He wasn’t recharging then; he was out cold.

It took precisely that long for Windcharger to realize what must have been done and his spark seized. Clambering away from the senseless captive, he burst into the neighboring pod.

“Incinerator!” he hissed, causing all of the pace-mates to whirl and stare at him with varying degrees of disorientation. Did they know what his pod held? “There’s—there’s _something that doesn’t belong_.” He enunciated this sharply, gesturing wildly over his shoulder. “And it’s in my pod!”

“Yes, it is,” Incinerator agreed steadily, folding his hands on top of his knees where he sat on his berth. “But don’t worry, I intend to move him to our second location soon enough.”

Windcharger sputtered, unable to believe what was being said so casually. “How did he get here? What did you do?!”

“Well, I overheard a conversation he was having with his manager and watched him receive a field promotion. They were discussing how quickly they could rebuild the archive—for the good of the public, of course. Our employer believes it would _not_ be good for the public, so I needed to take action. Since you had the prudent idea of handing out energon cubes to the workers, I took advantage of it. The medics had many heavy sedatives on hand, as you know,” Incinerator explained chidingly, as though speaking to a sparkling.

“Now that he’s out of the way,” Kiln piped up, “what are we going to do with him?”

“Oh, he’s not out of the way yet, my dear brother,” Incinerator warned. “We aren’t able to ransom him; as soon as he was bailed out by his pace-mates, he would return to work and remake the building. We also can’t persuade him to do otherwise; you weren’t there to see how persistently he worked and I’m sure this case would be no different. We can’t hold him indefinitely; that would raise questions of his absence and might compromise any or all of our locations and our operation. Thus the natural consequence…?”

Kiln considered and Windcharger felt his spark seize again, precipitating the answer he knew was coming. Bracing himself made no difference when Kiln smiled slightly, looking all too similar to his brother as he concluded, “We need a more permanent solution.”

“Good,” Incinerator praised. “Suggestions?”

“If I’m recalling correctly,” Strain mentioned, “our previous employer, Twincharge, mentioned to you the time the Neural Exploration Trial tried to execute him using a smelter.”

“There are several smelting pools here,” Boomerang added. “Highstake can stake out the locations, can’t you?”

“Sure thing, Boomer!” Highstake exclaimed, glancing at Windcharger eagerly. “He can help me! Right, Charger?”

Windcharger gaped at all of them, internals threatening to upheave again, optics trying to water. His coworkers, who he thought were his friends, were discussing a murder as though it were nothing but a game. His optics drifted over each of them, searching for anyone would wasn’t completely enthralled with this idea, and found no one. His gaze froze on Incinerator, whose optics bored into him, his wings twitching testily.

Windcharger saw the truth behind this particular wing-speak: if he didn’t agree, he might just end up in that smelter too. With great difficulty he contracted his vents and released them.

“Fine,” he murmured, barely a whisper. “I can’t say I love this idea, but…fine. When are we doing this?”

Incinerator seemed satisfied with this, tearing their optics apart. “Highstake?”

“It’ll take us a bit to study the most secluded of the smelting pools,” Highstake replied. “Three orns, I’d say.”

 _Knowing Highstake, it’s three orns or less_ , Windcharger realized as he watched them make their plans. He tried to listen but his processor was racing too quickly to focus. He had three orns or less to come up with a plan of his own and he was now pained, tortured with the knowledge that any plan he might consider careful could be disastrous. He would need help, but from mechs who would, at least for a little while, ignore the fact that he was guilty by association. He needed mechs who would care enough about the outcome in this to help, even if they despised him.

The choice was obvious. He was _not_ looking forward to this.


	16. Chapter 16

_I hope these medics know what they’re doing._

Gears had no reason to doubt this idea; as soon as he was brought out and Polevault guided him toward the medical center, he was nearly mobbed by the nearest cluster of personnel.

In a way it was nice that they took his condition seriously, that they took the time to care for him. He didn’t really want to believe what Brawn had said about overreactions, but if he refused to believe it, was he simply being contrary?

It didn’t take much for him to put that question away for later as the rescue bots gave him an IV for his precariously low energy levels—still dropping, in fact—and a tarp to keep him warm. It wasn’t the softest, but under the circumstances he didn’t mind as much as he might have anywhere else. He was just glad he was being taken care of, so he made himself a decent patient—cooperative, if not chipper.

“I—I don’t know why I’m still shivering,” he told the nearest medic, stoically trying to keep his teeth from chattering. “I’m concerned about it, b-but I can’t help but be _more_ concerned about my knee and hip; a beam fell on them and now they feel misaligned.”

“That’s because they are, actually, just by an inch or two. I think you can walk it back into place once you’re back on your feet. And the shivering, it’s a symptom of shock,” the medic announced, giving Gears a small burst of pride for his correctness. He stifled it just as quickly; he _didn’t want_ to feel any sort of satisfaction. Why did he need to remind himself of that? It should be at the forefront of his thoughts.

Speaking of that, it didn’t seem like he needed to work on Brawn right now. His pace-leader seemed fairly unhappy as he was, which meant Gears didn’t need to help him along. That was certainly a load off, Gears mused wearily, almost hazily. He was free to turn some attention not only to himself but to the rest of his surroundings.

Through a ring of pace-mates, Gears could see Blitzglitch under sedation. He had indeed gotten out safely and from the looks of it, his leg was still being treated. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too much trouble for him in the long run. If the kink in his own leg wasn’t able to be coaxed back into its proper position, they could limp along on the worksite together, Gears decided with a feeble laugh.

Oh…the worksite. His smile—which was _unwelcome_ in the first place, he reminded himself firmly—faded away as quickly and as unnoticed as it had been in its appearance. This was their worksite, their creation lying in ruins. Who could have so cruelly done this to them?

Agonizing over it wouldn’t help anything and there wasn’t much he could find out when he was lying on a medical slab. He returned his attention to the mechs on the crew who were still alive, being treated around him. Cloudshift’s shoulder was currently being set back to its proper position. Gears didn’t watch the procedure too closely; he didn’t want to feel any dizzier than he did presently—which would be quite a feat.

Over there, closer to the wreckage, stood Polevault. Gears felt warmth curl around his spark, yet he managed to keep his mouth set in a thin, straight line. He couldn’t show it, of course, or he would be ashamed. In any case, he was…glad—no, he wasn’t. It was…nice— _no_ , none of that!

Whatever this feeling was—he refused to call it anything close to happiness—it was giving off wistful undertones. He focused more fully on those, so he would feel those more strongly instead. His current train of thought, wistful though it was, was of a time he hadn’t had his circuit card. That almost made him reject it, but…really, what harm could it do as a memory? He wasn’t going to ignore his past when it had gotten him the circuit card. He was just ignoring the singular feeling he’d felt back then.

He had taken Polevault and Catapult to the Topper, just as he had for Brawn and Huffer, when he’d first signed them on. Catapult had been interested in knowing where everything went, where all of the NET patients sat and if they were sorted by groups of emotion. Gears had been delighted to answer, while Polevault had been far warier of the place. She’d made the remark that it looked like a lab.

“I know!” Gears giggled, spreading out his arms and twirling so he could feel the buzz of the air tickle over his plating. “Isn’t it amazing?” Catapult had laughed, spinning a time or two before sobering when he saw his sister’s strained features.

Not long after he’d gotten his circuit card, Gears had been thinking back on his time with NET. Now that his thoughts were _clear_ , it wasn’t hard to discern that Polevault had left because the NET scientists’ ‘Project: Catapult’ had been his friend, killed by NET hands. Seeing Polevault now, Gears wondered just how much she knew. She seemed to sense that she was being stared at and turned, approaching when she saw it was him.

“It’s good to see you,” she commented. “Feeling any better than you were? How are your energy levels?”

He very nearly slipped and thanked her for asking, but he swallowed it just in time. “They’re back at ninety percent,” he stated, quick to add, “though my leg still hurts.”

Polevault hummed thoughtfully, looking him up and down and giving him an urge to sit up, which he did. “Gears, ” the femme began tentatively, “what happened to you? Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re very…different now. And you have a pace! What’s your role in that?”

“I’m the **sequein**. Yeh, I know I’m different, but it’s a better different,” he informed her grumpily. “I got a card that balanced me out, reset what NET had done to me. Two mechs who helped me became my pace-mates.” There was a lot more to it than that, but as much as he would like to explain everything in full detail, he couldn’t help but wonder just how much _she_ had changed during her absence. As a bit of a test, he added, gentling his tone, “I’m…sorry for Catapult and what happened. And I can _feel_ that I’m sorry; I can mean it now.”

Polevault smiled slightly, but her optics were sad. “So you figured it out. I can…see that you mean it. As it turns out, I’ve been investigating the circumstances, what NET did which…cost him.” She shifted nervously and then blurted out, “Did you hear anything about him when you were there, that you know now could help me? I just want to know how and where, if he was in pain.”

Gears swallowed, thinking back to one of the many orns he had been trying to flirt with Venture, his assistant carer. He quickly turned his processor from that; his memories of her still stung a little. “All I heard,” he recounted slowly, “was that ‘Project: Catapult had failed the trial phase.’”

“‘Project: Catapult,’” Polevault echoed, shaking her helm bitterly. “That’s what they thought of him? What _is_ the trial phase, then? What do they do in the beginning, to prep you?”

They were quickly entering territory that would be _uncomfortable_ for him to describe, to say the least. Gears squirmed where he sat, growing a bit distracted by a sudden spike of volume from nearby. He huffed, twisting around to look, and saw Brawn trying to sit up, shouting at the medics, tugging on tubes snaking to and from his vents, and then panting as he cost himself precious air. Then Gears saw him stiffen and bend over, spitting some energon into a bio-can an exasperated medic thrust at him and the **sequein** decided enough was enough.

“Just a nanoklik,” he told Polevault, grasping his IV rack for balance as he rose onto weak legs. Polevault supported his other arm and he nodded his thanks, making his way over to his coughing leader with her help. “Brawn!” Gears caught his attention with his best, sharpest tone. “What are you doing?!”

“I’m trying to get answers!” Brawn countered, spitting again and wiping energon from his lips. “No one’ll tell me where Huffer is!”

“He won’t stay still!” one of the medics ranted, waving a tube which had some dents pressed in patterns suspiciously reminiscent of Brawn’s hands. “He has a lot of metal filings in his system and in order to extract them, he needs to be still, lying down, and _not_ talking!”

“Brawn,” Gears repeated sternly. “Huffer’s probably still picking through the wreckage! You know how he gets fixed on details and double-checking everything, so cooperate and hold still!” He was enjoying the fact that he could be the one giving orders—just a _little_ bit.

“I’ll go and check,” Polevault volunteered, heading off at a jog. Brawn watched her go with optics narrowed, plating flaring and EM field tight.

“What’s wrong?” Gears demanded.

“I already asked the workers who’ve been over there,” Brawn snapped, hacking a few more times and then finishing through clenched teeth, “No one’s seen him since he went to talk with Hightop!”

“Then let’s ask Hightop and get all of this sorted out before you need an intubation,” Gears suggested impatiently, locating their manager hefting up some of the larger energon cubes for stocking the handout center. Polevault, already on her way back, went after Hightop after Gears made a gesture at him.

“Polevault! I must say, I’m surprised but pleased to see you here,” Hightop exclaimed as the pair of them neared the med center. “I appreciate your coming to help us with this.”

“Nexus was my home sector; I couldn’t stand by and watch this,” Polevault replied, seeming aghast at the idea of it.

“Sir Hightop,” Gears cut in before he could reply, “we were wondering if you’ve seen Huffer around, working or handing out energon. It seems like you were the last one to speak to him.” Gears sensed Brawn behind him, intruding into his EM field by leaning forward to hear his answer.

Hightop raised an eyebrow. “Really? That was…” Quickly he checked his chronometer. “…three joors ago! Are you sure you haven’t seen him?” He frowned, glancing around as though expecting Huffer to stride up on cue. “I’ve just promoted him to chief engineer; he should be here, helping the workers.”

“Chief engineer? I-It’s been three joors?” Gears echoed incredulously. Throughout the treatments and talking with Polevault, where had his sense of time gone? More importantly, where had Huffer gone?

Polevault seemed equally taken aback. “M-Maybe he went inside the wreckage,” she suggested, not sounding too confident. “I’ll…go and check that.” So saying, she sprinted toward the hole where, coincidentally, Gears had emerged. He couldn’t fault her for that; it seemed likely Huffer might gravitate to that spot. She would probably go to the crack where Huffer had found Brawn next.

“Frag,” Brawn cursed, anger and surprisingly strong desperation pooling in his voice, clear as the sun despite his hoarseness. “ _Frag_. We’re going to find Huffer and we’re going to find him right slaggin’ _now_.” Raising his voice, he hollered, “Where the frag is my One? Has anyone seen my One?!” Choking, he fumbled for the bio-can and doubled over it.

With alarmed optics Gears pinpointed the medic holding the tube, wordlessly making his expectations clear. The medic nodded dutifully, taking advantage of Brawn’s distraction and maneuvering the tube he held into one of the side vents they had exposed.

“Please, stop shouting,” the medic implored, receiving a defiant glare as the pace-leader straightened, slamming the bio-can onto the berth next to him and clenching his fists.

“Has anyone seen my One?!” he demanded again, shifting in a way that told Gears he was about to spring to his feet and search on his own if nobody answered.

“I’ve seen him,” a voice piped up cautiously. Gears whirled around, finding a mech taller than him but shorter than Brawn, bright red and silver. He looked familiar, Gears noted, but that wasn’t what mattered. He was shaking slightly, clenching his hands tightly in front of him, and Gears had a feeling it was from a _different_ kind of shock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gears is a good patient. Brawn is not.


	17. Chapter 17

Windcharger had been quite nervous about going back to the worksite to talk to the pace-mates about their One. He wasn’t just anxious about their reactions; he also wondered how he was going to return there without Incinerator becoming suspicious of his intentions.

It turned out Boomerang had unwittingly helped him with that. “Wow. Charger, you’re looking like scrap,” she commented bluntly. Windcharger shrugged, leaning against the wall of the pace’s pod, where he had been standing since he entered and they’d begun making their plans about their hostage.

“I didn’t fully fuel after my burnout,” he admitted jadedly, all at once realizing he felt just as haggard as he probably looked and remembering how he had torn out his IV. “S’just a dielectric oil shortage.”

“Well, don’t think you’re going to be getting any with us!” Kiln warned. “We don’t have much and you’ll need it if you burn out again after a show. That’s more important than using it right now.”

It was then that Windcharger had realized this was his chance. “Well, I know where I can get plenty,” he informed them, pushing himself off the wall and concluding, “I’ll just go back to the wreckage; they have a lot there.”

It was the perfect excuse and no one seemed to have a problem with it, but as he strode out of the pod and back toward the scene of his crime, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there were optics pinned on his back.

 _Highstake_ , he decided after several minutes’ consideration. _He was never too good at shadowing_. In a way he was surprised that Incinerator himself hadn’t followed him, gliding almost silently over his helm. If they suspected he might not go where he had told them, they were wrong and he was quite satisfied with it, though he hoped Highstake wouldn’t stay to watch him refuel; how would he talk to the pace-mates then?

Fortunately, as he rounded the corner, he was able to look in his peripheral vision and find no one in sight, which meant Highstake had broken off his pursuit. He ex-vented softly in relief and picked up speed, scanning the crowd still present.

What had those pace-mates looked like? He was sure one of them might be yellow or at least have a little yellow on him. The other one had some…blue? Red? Why was his memory muddled? It was likely lack of recharge and energy loss; what he’d said about not fully refueling was still true.

 _Stop worrying about yourself_ , he rebuked himself sternly, focusing on his duty. There was a mech on a medical berth, struggling against the medics and complaining loudly. Some of the plating on his lower abdomen had been removed in favor of feeding tubes into him, but the upper half, covering his spark, was the same yellow he thought he remembered.

Windcharger swallowed hard, watching him grow more and more agitated and then sit straight up, bellowing between coughing fits, “Where’s my One?!”

There was no doubt about it now. That was the pace-leader…the mech whose One was missing. Windcharger approached, watching him bend over in pain with the other mech, red _and_ blue, hovering over him—indubitably the **sequein**. Other mechs were leaving, likely to search for the One on the site so the pace-leader would stop screaming at them, and Windcharger crept closer.

“I’ve seen him,” he spoke up, hating how timid he sounded. He shivered a little, his internals roiling as the two mechs focused on him. The leader looked surprised but expectant, pleased to have finally gotten some results, and the **sequein** looked…calculating. Windcharger couldn’t help but feel self-conscious; he was being sized up.

“Is there any way we could…talk privately?” he questioned hesitantly. There was a klik of silence where he could clearly see the range of emotions over the pace-leader’s face: surprise, concern, and then cold ire, precipitating him ripping cords from several of his systems. The senior medics had watched the change come over him as well and didn’t even try to stop him, holding back those who stepped forward or opened their mouths to protest. When it was a matter of a pace-mate missing in action, if a leader intended to sacrifice their health, rescue bots sensed the _higher_ bind of duty which overruled theirs.

“Lead on,” the **sequein** barked, readjusting his hold on his IV rack so he could bring it along. Since his words sounded more like a command than a suggestion, Windcharger obeyed, striding away from the worksite with the pair following closely, one flanking each of his sides. Until they got several yards away from the site, the only thing breaking the silence was the rolling of the wheels on the **sequein’s** IV rack and the rattled venting of the pace-leader. The noise was aggravating, but Windcharger didn’t make any comment. He didn’t want to insult them before he’d even gotten their designations and he knew these things were just consequences of what he’d done to them. For now it was wisest not to mention that he had been the cause of that, so once they had reached the nearby housing complexes, he opened his mouth.

“Why have you taken us here? Where’s Huffer?” the pace-leader spoke first, sounding suspicious.

Frankly his goal had been to get them in public so they would feel less inclined to attack him in front of any unknowing witnesses, but Windcharger wasn’t about to inform them of that.

“Wait!” the **sequein** interjected, sparing him from answering. “I know you. You’re the mech who performed the finale, with the High-Octane Flyers!”

“Listen to me,” Windcharger sighed tersely, knowing if he waited much longer he wouldn’t have the courage to tell them. “The troupe, the High-Octane Flyers, they’ve taken your One hostage.”

“What?!” This cry came from both of them in unison, dismayed.

“I had nothing to do with it!” Windcharger hurried to add, instinctively walking faster. It was true; while he may have been the destroyer of their archive, the murderer of their coworkers, he hadn’t known Incinerator would do something like this. _I_ should _have known_ , he berated himself.

“Where is he?” the **sequein** snapped. “How and where did they grab him? Has he been hurt in any way?”

Windcharger waved his hands as though to erase the questions. “Look, all you need to know—”

“ _I’ll_ decide what I need to know,” the leader snarled, clamping onto his arm and denting it before Windcharger wrenched away, frustrated and desperate. Why wouldn’t they just _listen?_

“The bottom line,” he urgently went on, “is they have him, they’re moving him to a second location, and they plan on throwing him in a smelting pool!” Without warning both of the pace-mates stopped. Windcharger got a few feet ahead of them and then paused, pivoting to study both of them worriedly.

The pace-leader was completely still, not even venting, staring at a point beyond his shoulder with wide, intense optics that blatantly displayed his one current emotion. It wasn’t panic or even natural fear; it was dread, deep-seated, entrenched in his core and in the way he held himself. Windcharger was disconcerted by it, enough that he never saw coming what happened next.

His only warning was a screech of wheels before the IV rack was crashing into him, knocking him off balance, and the owner of the rack followed, slamming him down and pinning him in the middle of the street. Windcharger gasped for air as the **sequein** crushed his vents under his weight, teeth bared wolfishly as he leaned in close.

“ _Who_ — _are_ — _you?_ ” he hissed, spitting out each word as though it were a separate threat. “What is this _troupe_? What do you _really_ do?”

Venting shallowly, spark racing, Windcharger gulped, optics fastening onto the leader, who loomed in his peripheral vision. There was no sign of the dread now; it was hidden by pure ice. “You should answer my **sequein**. He was with NET,” he announced ominously, “and he’s a little bitter about outfits that keep secrets and double lives. If he doesn’t take you apart piece by piece… _I will_.”

These were not mechs to be underestimated, Windcharger realized. He had expected intimidation, he had braced himself for a bloodying punch, but this was far beyond that. This pace was willing to go so much farther for each other and it seemed they had _only_ each other to live for, die for, and, as it so happened, kill for.

“They’re a criminal pace,” he answered at last, making sure his tone portrayed the fact that he was willing to stay subdued, that he was surrendering. He didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.

“What does that mean?!” the mech on top of him barked as he bore down and pressed dents into his aching arms, making him flinch and almost wish he could press closer to the street to distance himself from his interrogator.

“They take missions for credits,” Windcharger whispered. “From any range of employers. They—they work with the Underground.”

At that news, the mech above released him. Windcharger scrambled upright and the **sequein** followed suit, lurching onto his feet with his EM field lashing furiously.

“Oh, is _that_ what they do?!” he raged. “So by the light, they’re handling sparklings, teaching them to _fly!_ And by night, the Pit-spawns are abducting them! By the Primes, have they ever _murdered_ them?! _Have they?!_ Who are they willing to kill for their slagging _credits?!_ ”

It was a very real possibility that the mech might attack him again, Windcharger decided, instinctively hugging his arms around himself to protect his spark. Nervously he glanced at the pace-leader and found he looked almost as uneasy as Windcharger himself. Apparently this fury was of a magnitude the leader hadn’t witnessed before. Finally the larger mech seized the smaller, jarring him sharply.

“Stop, Gears! _Stop!_ ” he commanded. “This won’t help Huffer!” Gears responded to that, allowing himself to be reined in. Satisfied, the leader then turned an unfriendly gaze on Windcharger.

“I…have a plan to rescue your One,” he piped up weakly.

“You have a plan?” the leader echoed scornfully. “No. We’re doing this _our_ way.”

Windcharger glanced around, grimacing when he saw various pace-mates peeking out their windows at the trio. Now that he’d given them the news, the attention wasn’t as welcome. “Can we ‘do it your way’ somewhere that’s not so exposed, Sir…?” He hesitated, pursing his lips and ducking his helm. “I didn’t catch your designation.”

“Because I didn’t give it,” the leader growled as he stalked past him. He brushed through Windcharger’s EM field as he went and then paused upon sensing the fear and shame in it. Clenching and unclenching his fists, the mech sighed deeply and then coughed. “Brawn,” he said shortly. “My name is Brawn.”

Windcharger followed, unsure of where they were going since Brawn was leading the way. Gears was up ahead as well; he hadn’t looked at him since Brawn had forced him into silence.

_What in the Pit did I get myself into?_


	18. Chapter 18

_Stay calm. Stay collected. Don’t let them see you panic_.

Brawn repeated this several times as he strode ahead of Gears and…the unnamed mech. Presently Brawn didn’t care much about formal introductions, but it would have been handy if he could call him something other than “you”. Right now his processor couldn’t be spared to think back to the night he’d taken Gears and Huffer to the show, when the mech’s name had been spoken.

 _Stay calm. Stay collected_.

He had to remind himself and rein in his EM field every few steps; he was close, so close to strangling the mech following them, who had simply walked up and told him Huffer had been ripped away from them and was in danger of being ripped away _permanently_. Again Brawn cursed him—and he also cursed himself.

If he hadn’t allowed Huffer out of his sight, this never would have happened. He should have insisted he come on the trip to the medics, he should have hauled him over his shoulder and dragged him there. But Huffer had cajoled him into giving in to his weakness. A little dust in his vents should never have been enough to put him on a medical berth! He was supposed to be much stronger than that but he’d let himself give in when it had been most important to insist on his way. As if on cue he coughed harshly, swallowed the energon that surfaced and walked faster.

Only Primus knew how Brawn managed to have less of a reaction to the stranger’s news than Gears. No…he’d had just as strong of a reaction, it was just…less obvious.

Everything reminded him of Remix. He had witnessed firsthand how Remix bullied, backed up by his despicable little gang, taking advantage of Huffer’s role as their subordinate, and even that brief glance had let Brawn size up what they could do. In the following bar fight, he’d thrashed them without contest because he’d known their strengths and how small they were compared to him and _his_ strengths.

He knew absolutely nothing of this company, led by Incinerator. It was easy enough to recall the name; it had stuck with Brawn more clearly than the others because it was obvious during their performance that he was in charge. He was the Airmaster, the ringleader, the power building up theirs. And other than that, Brawn had seen nothing. All he knew was that this mech, winged and broad, was larger than him.

If he’d done anything to hurt Brawn’s pace-mate, that wouldn’t matter. He’d never had a fear of mechs larger than him, certainly not ones who persecuted others. Even so, he couldn’t help fretting for Huffer’s sake, the same questions he’d had when trapped under rubble resurfacing.

 _Is he alone? Is he afraid?_ Damage didn’t have to be physical; it could be on the emotional plane and Huffer was nervous under the best of circumstances. Under the worst…that would be another thing Incinerator paid for.

At the same time, Brawn was just as much at fault and the guilt was noticeable throughout his systems, surfacing as pain indicators as he clenched his fists too tightly. He had never let Huffer be independent in the ways that it counted. When it came to caretaking, he neglected him and when it came to fighting, he spared him— _every_ _time_. If he hadn’t kept making things better before Huffer could try, if he had let Huffer practice defending himself, would it have changed anything? Would he have been able to fight off his captors? Would he have been safe?

 _He_ will _be safe. I have to make him safe_. Until he and Huffer talked and agreed on a shift of their roles and priorities, keeping his pace-mates safe was Brawn’s job and his alone. Nothing and no one would be left standing in the way of that if they dared to try.

However, as much as he hated to admit it to himself, all of these threatening thoughts were a means of staving off the dread twisting his spark raw. The first time he had neglected and fallen out with his One, it had gone so far that Huffer asked if he should be packing. No…that had been the second time.

The _first_ time he’d neglected and fallen out with his One, he’d gotten two cannon blasts to the back.

All parties involved had survived both instances, though the first had cost him a pace. What reassurance did he have that he and his One would both come out of this? There was none, so whatever this plan of his was, it had to be a slaggin’ good one.

Their success and survival would also depend on those enacting it. Gears’ perturbing performance had made him warier. As far as Brawn could remember, he hadn’t seen Gears that angry since he’d first put in his circuit card and had passed like a storm over their construction site, which had been a commission of NET.

This newest episode had nevertheless reassured a part of him that had always been a bit doubtful, supplying him with the truth: Gears did care. He was loyal about them and to the pace and when both or either was put in jeopardy, all bets of their opponents’ safety were off.

Speaking of opponents, Brawn wasn’t quite sure what to make of the mech who had brought them the news. Brawn was on guard around him more than anything else, but he also couldn’t help feeling a twinge of respect. This mech had come to them and answered their questions, knowing they needed to have their One returned to be whole. He seemed to be breaking off from whatever this criminal organization was; the most prominent aspect Brawn could find was that the mech referred to the group as ‘they’, not ‘we’.

Where he was taking the two mechs with him, Brawn didn’t know. There was no chance he was taking the stranger to their home, where he could find them later, but he wasn’t sure if there was any other alternative. He couldn’t clear his thoughts.

“Frag,” he mumbled, faltering to a stop in front of the sanctuary. Gears looked surprised and gestured that they should go on, but Brawn frowned in response. “Wait here,” he ordered shortly. “And if he causes any trouble, I’m sure you can handle it.”

Gears nodded solemnly, gripping the other mech’s arm hard enough that he winced and tried to struggle, earning a venomous glare. Satisfied with that, Brawn trudged up the steps, wringing his hands as he entered the dimly lit front room, ignoring the mechs already present. They were simply guardsmechs, the ones who made sure no one damaged anything, accidentally or otherwise. It wouldn’t be the first time.

It was easy to find an empty room where he could sit; it was said that if one tried to count how many rooms had been built, they would be here for vorns, long enough to grow old and wise and see it was utterly useless to even try. Brawn had always laughed at that, but as he passed a dozen closed rooms and looked down the hall past the one he was claiming, he could see this rumor might not be entirely unfounded.

The room wasn’t stuffy, but it was completely quiet, almost unnervingly so. Brawn bravely resisted the urge to shiver; he didn’t have time to be tentative about this. He needed to make his intentions and requests known, while also ignoring the voice telling him to _hurry_ , long enough to hear an answer.

“I’m not an oversentimental mech,” he muttered, surprised when his voice made no echo. “But I’m not being sentimental by coming here. I guess…I want this to turn out right.” Sinking down, he fidgeted, his hands clenching again on his knees. He grimaced, silenced another pain indicator and forced them to relax. “Primus. I’m sure you see what’s happening here and I need to know he’ll be alright, that you won’t leave him or…” He hesitated, lowering his voice a fraction. “…or _take_ him. Please let him be okay. He’s not just anybody; he’s my One and I let him down. If you can hear me, just let me take his place any way I can. I need direction.” Sighing softly, he slipped into Culumexian. **::Cacerva wiy, Primine.::**

If he’d been speaking to anyone else, Brawn would have been shocked at how quickly the answer came, but just like that his processor cleared enough that he saw the answer to at least one of his problems: his place.

He could take Huffer’s _place_. Not long after they had indicted Gears, he had accompanied Huffer to his old living residence to pick up some belongings of his creators, which he had left behind upon moving in with Brawn. In lieu of their current residence, that was where they could go and be safe. While the worry hadn’t left him, he knew this was undoubtedly a step in the right direction, closer to reunion.

“Thank you,” he burst out, leaping to his feet and sprinting toward the entrance.

Almost nothing had changed since their last visit, Brawn noted later as he opened the old home. Three vorns was a short amount of time and even though it was being used for nothing but storage of some things they didn’t want to look at, it was quite tidy.

“We need a plan,” he declared, walking the length of the room back and forth. “You—” He jerked a nod at the stranger.

“Windcharger,” he supplied.

“Like we care,” Gears snapped.

Brawn gave him a slightly chiding look and continued as though he hadn’t been interrupted. “Where was Huffer when you saw him?”

“He was in one of the pods we travel in,” Windcharger explained. “Drugged, in stasis cuffs.” At Brawn’s slow, calming ex-vent, Windcharger winced. “Too much information?”

“No, it’s just not the information we want,” Gears told him sharply. “My question is how you’re supposedly not involved? How did you not know what your pace was doing? Pace-mates always know!”

“Not always,” Brawn informed him, feeling a phantom prickle down his back which he shrugged away.

“Besides, I’m not a pace-mate,” Windcharger stated, falling optics betraying his steady tone. “I’m just a workmate.”

 _It would be easier not to be involved if one was the only mech on the outside_ , Brawn realized, filing this information away. “So he’s in one of the pods,” he repeated. “Yours? Then we just sneak in there tonight once your— _the_ pace is in recharge, grab Huffer and make a run for it. If anyone wakes up and interferes, they get reformatted into sheet metal.”

Windcharger’s eyebrows bore down disapprovingly. “Um, Brawn…wouldn’t it be easier to catch them in transit, use the element of surprise?”

“Do _you_ know when they plan to move him?!” Brawn growled.

“Well, no—”

“Then we do it tonight, before they can!”

“And there’s another thing,” Gears piped up, folding his arms. “If it does come down to recycling the retro-rats, I want to know who I’m up against—what they can do, what they can’t, what we have to be worried about. First, who’s the flashy kite?”

“Incinerator,” Windcharger and Brawn specified in unison, frowning at each other before Brawn gave in and Windcharger went on. “He’s the pace-leader and, obviously, he can fly. He’s stronger than most…Um, he was the mech onsite to kidnap your One.”

 _Why would he be onsite in the first place?_ Brawn wondered briefly.

“So we’ll bend him farther backwards than the others,” Gears decided grimly. “And the femme? And what about the glitched-up Praxian knockoff? The one with the _arms_?”

“Boomerang, the One, and Strain, the **quanidre** …” As Windcharger struggled to answer Gears’ interrogations, Brawn noted uneasily just how little the mech knew about his coworkers. He could supply only what they did as part of the show, without any of their weaknesses but Strain’s.

“Although, that might be the most important to know,” Windcharger admitted. “His shoulders can be hypersensitive if his augmentation’s overused. If you target his shoulders, they can lock up. It happened once during a show and I almost didn’t catch the sparkling. We don’t talk about it.” Windcharger went ramrod straight, optics widening. “Oh, scrap, I have a show tonight!”

“What’s your malfunction? You’re not leaving!” Brawn barked incredulously. “You need to help us!”

“Listen, I have to act natural and stay attuned with the routine or they’ll get suspicious and realize I’m going to try freeing Huffer!” Windcharger protested, scrambling toward the door. “I’ll meet with you in the after-show area to confirm the plan. Don’t do anything without me!”

Once Windcharger had vanished, Gears whirled around, planting his hands on his hips expectantly, almost eagerly. “We’re going without him, right?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Brawn sighed, holding up a hand when Gears started to sputter and steam. “Hush up. I know we can’t trust him, but we’d also be stupid not to use him and until we know whether or not he’s an enemy, we need to have him where we keep an optic on him.”

“How are we keeping an optic on him if we’re sitting here on our afts?!” Gears cried.

“We won’t be,” Brawn announced, pushing him in the direction of the door. “We’ll be watching him, watching _all_ of them. No one ever said we couldn’t have an encore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ::Cacerva wiy, Primine.:: - "Perceive me, Primus."


	19. Chapter 19

Windcharger knew he was about to face one of the hardest performances of his life, which was saying a lot. He’d endured many shows while stifling the ache to belong and the guilt of what his coworkers were doing, but now he also had to suppress his fear. If any of the pace sensed that something was off about him, he would be putting himself in danger—more importantly, he would be endangering Brawn, Gears, and their One. Huffer, they had said?

At least he was only needed for the finale; he could hurry back to the pods and make sure Huffer was alright while he grabbed some dielectric oil to use. After his spectacular burnout at the construction site, there was no chance he was risking it when he was carrying a sparkling during the show. He still shuddered to think of the time Strain had dropped the little one sooner than they had planned. His spark had risen into his throat and he’d lunged, almost stumbling in his hurry to balance on the railing and catch the sparkling femme, who had been oblivious to the danger she’d been in. The audience members had been too relieved to notice how quickly Strain had retracted his arms and how stiffly he gave them his bows. As far as Windcharger could remember, that had been the only time he’d seen Incinerator truly angry with the **quanidre**.

_“You locked up, didn’t you?!” the Airmaster railed, visibly resisting the urge to shake the other mech. “If it hadn’t been for Windcharger, that femmeling might have been seriously hurt or killed, Strain. We can’t afford that!”_

_Strain responded only by lowering his gaze to the floor. He sat on a crate against the wall, his vents hitching minutely as Highstake probed the rotator cups in his shoulders, being none too gentle. Windcharger fidgeted, unsure if he should defend his partner or let Incinerator continue. He opted for the latter; Strain obviously wasn’t going to defend himself, which meant he must feel himself deserving._

_“There’s no excuse for poor quality, Strain,” Incinerator continued, his vocals a growl, wings pulled taut as he leaned down to recapture his pace-mate’s optics. “There’s also no excuse for neglecting maintenance! If you can’t take care of yourself, I can no longer trust you to take care of others.”_

_Strain nodded solemnly, features tightening as Highstake jabbed a particular gear. “Ow,” he said softly, almost tonelessly._

_“I want to be able to trust each and every one of you,” Incinerator proclaimed, “and by keeping this—this sensitivity from me, Strain, you cast suspicion on all others!” He whirled around, glaring hard at the rest of his pace, as well as Windcharger. “Well? Are there any more secrets or lies among us?!” Upon receiving grim indications of the negative, he softened slightly. “No veils separating us. That’s how I intended this pace and that’s how I intend to keep it. Understood?”_

As he thought back on it now, Windcharger felt his spark turn over again to think he had admired how Incinerator valued honesty and trust.

“I was so wrong,” he sighed aloud as he entered the pace’s pod first, searching through the mess to find the dielectric oil. It was cool and comforting in his hand but would be even more so in his systems, so he hurried out of the pace’s pod into his so he wouldn’t feel as oppressed by his surroundings while he refueled. What he would say if Huffer was awake, he didn’t know, but he would find some way to hint that Brawn and Gears were coming.

Just as he had the last time he entered, Windcharger froze at the door. It was empty. Huffer was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh…oh, no,” he gasped, clutching the oil even more tightly as dizzy panic seized him.

He had a feeling he knew to an extent the dread he had seen on Brawn when he’d first told them the news; it was a sick feeling centering low in his internals, threatening to upheave at any point. How could he go back and tell Brawn and Gears that they had already missed their chance? How could he tell them Huffer might already be dead?

 _No, he can’t be_ , he tried to calm himself. _Highstake needed my help, scoping out the smelting pools’ locations; we’re still—_ they’re _still holding him somewhere_. But the question was where? Throughout everything that had been discussed when he’d agreed to the troupe’s plan, he had never thought to ask where their second location was and now it was too late to do so.

The fact that he was most likely still alive wasn’t nearly as reassuring as it ought to be. Out of the two, Gears was more volatile, but Brawn was more dangerous. If he gave them this news, Windcharger knew it would be a race of who could catch hold of a limb and rip it off first. On the other hand, he realized, slumping against the door and whimpering, how could he _not_ tell them? Worse yet, he still had a show to do. Hoping he could keep it down, he downed half the canister of oil and went to their newest stadium. With all of his problems rattling around his processor, Windcharger was frankly surprised that he had remembered where it was.

The show went just the same as always, but Windcharger was seeing it in a new light. These bots he was working with…this really was a performance and only that. As much as they smiled, he could only see the sinister things lurking behind them. He was so unnerved by this that he very nearly missed his cue to warm up, but even that trick went off without a hitch and they were rewarded with a fine ovation.

It was while everyone was standing that he spotted two familiar characters in the audience and he was reminded of what he had to do all too soon. Brawn and Gears were being careful not to look at him, studying everyone else instead with a much more critical optic than they had the first time around.

As they bowed again, graciously receiving the praise, Windcharger hoped his fears—about and _of_ the two pace-mates—couldn’t be read in his EM field where it intersected with Strain’s. The mech did give him a look, so Windcharger vented deeply and laughed, actually managing to sound genuine and triumphant, pleased with how the finale had gone. For now, it seemed enough to satisfy his partner.

Once he strode backstage with the others, Windcharger reminded himself of the urgency of being absolutely normal and casual. Lives depended on it, not just his but this pace. He couldn’t risk separating them the way he had for the paces of the thirteen. He shuttered his optics briefly at remembering and balled his fists before ex-venting and striding toward the others, who were congratulating each other on the way the show had gone, just as always. Highstake and Incinerator weren’t with them.

He had always privately wanted a larger part of the performance and now he could give _them_ one. He had a feeling the fact that they’d moved Huffer meant they hadn’t believed that he was onboard with their plan. They were right, they knew they were right and the only reason they hadn’t done anything was that he hadn’t actively done anything against them. So they believed, at least. He had to make sure they didn’t find out now.

 _It’s about time you graduated_ , he reminded himself bitterly before smiling and working his way into their midst. “Did we earn enough to take a load off?” he asked, giving his vocals a hopeful inflection. “I’m in the mood.”

Boomerang shrugged in response. “Our accountant’s still off amassing the data and we still have to clean up and clean off.”

Windcharger nodded, glancing at Kiln and forcing a larger smile, though his spark had picked up speed. “Particularly you, as usual.” He resisted saying anything else, which might make it seem like a bit much, and he was relieved when Kiln rolled his optics and flung oil at him, which he dodged easily. On that note, a bit more cautiously, he turned his attention to Strain, who was standing just outside of their circle.

“And how are you? The sparkling loved you even more than me tonight,” he commented, his internals clenching stiffly even as he made his demeanor warm and congratulating. How he wished he could warn that sparkling how dishonorable this mech and his pace were, that they should never have been trusted with their safety!

“I’ve been better,” Strain admitted, saying nothing else. Windcharger’s gaze trailed to his shoulders, hoping for any signs of wear. If Brawn and Gears intended to take Huffer back tonight, a big factor in their success would be whether or not Strain was at full capacity to be dangerous. He couldn’t see any tremors, unfortunately, but he did seem weary. That would mean they probably wouldn’t go out for drinks, thank Primus. Windcharger wasn’t sure he’d be able to sit down with this group for a refueling, like they were friends.

“Well, I’m off to mingle with the innocents,” he told them, forcing himself not to wince or tremble as soon as the poorly chosen words were out of his mouth. As he pivoted to head out, he jumped upon finding Incinerator standing behind him. Fortunately the leader wasn’t looking at him, mouth twisting in distaste at Kiln.

“Go and wash, brother, before that oil dries on you,” he suggested mildly. Kiln nodded dutifully and trudged off with the others following. Windcharger went the opposite direction, stretching his EM field out behind him to be sure Incinerator wasn’t following. He sensed no one behind him, so he quickened his stride to the after-show area.

It was easy enough to distinguish Brawn and Gears from the rest of the crowd; they were standing stiffly together, looking all too much like they were waiting for something. Windcharger hissed through his teeth, wishing he could delay the inevitable but knowing they would only be angrier if he gave them the news after being late. Even so, he couldn’t force himself to go to them. They looked…off, almost like they were only partially there, but others in the crowd were giving them puzzled looks. They were drawing too much attention.

Before Windcharger could consider how he might direct them to look more natural, a mech passing them paused, his optics lighting up. “Brawn! What a surprise!”

Brawn seemed to shake off his frozen stance a little, countering, “I’m probably more surprised to see you, Rusty. Is this your pace?” He gestured at the group around them, nodding respectfully at the mech with two rust sticks in his mouth. “Your leader?”

“Who else? I told you he was addicted to these things,” Rusty reminded him, nudging his leader teasingly, who rolled his optics and unashamedly added a third rust stick for good measure. “We’re here as a way of celebrating…well, my survival. Are you doing the same? Where’s your One? I’d thought you’d keep him close.”

Brawn managed an expression that was a pained semblance of a smile and Windcharger saw Gears looking Rusty up and down sternly, so he rushed to Rusty’s rescue before the **sequein** could think of ‘defending’ his leader using any unneeded force.

“Hello, all!” he chirped pleasantly. “I trust you enjoyed the show?” Rusty and his pace nodded vigorously, Brawn and Gears a bit more hesitantly, and Windcharger beamed. “Great! That’s what we’re here for, to perform.” The words made a bitter taste in his mouth, so he changed the subject, slinging an arm over Brawn and Gears and feeling both frames and EM fields go rigid under his touch. “Hey, have you tried the energon goodies? They’re fantastic! I can show you where they are.”

Once they were some ways away, out of audial range of the crowd, Windcharger felt free to drop his act, running his hands over his face.

“What’re you hot and bothered about?” Brawn probed, folding his arms. “The plan’s going to work.”

“The plan is impossible,” Windcharger murmured, bracing himself as he concluded, “He’s gone again.”

As soon as he’d finished his sentence, Brawn had a hand clamped around a groove of his shoulder, jerking him closer and rumbling, “Ohh, Windcharger, I _pray_ for your sake that you’re lying to me.”

“I’m not,” Windcharger confessed, even more quietly. “They’ve taken him to the second location already and I don’t know where that is.” He didn’t dare meet Brawn’s optics, despite the fact that they were practically nose to nose, and he didn’t look at Gears either. He moved his optics to a point between them, confusion momentarily overpowering his fear when he saw someone familiar looming up on their scene.

“Twincharge?” he called, a sudden desperation for rescue propelling his voice farther. Gears did capture his attention then, revealing that he could indeed portray more than ire on his face. He reacted to the name with recognition and anxiety, spinning around to face the mech and backing up a few steps once he saw it was who he suspected.

Twincharge sauntered to them quite casually, greeting Gears with a solemn nod which wasn’t returned. _How would Twincharge know him?_ Windcharger wondered. The troupe’s past employer was startled to see Windcharger, but he spoke first to Brawn.

“I’ve been looking all over the sector for you,” he informed him. “Before their show, the troupe—” He nodded at Windcharger. “—asked me for a return favor, since they demolished the Topper so well for me. They had me babysitting a mech they had with them and, coincidentally, I recognized him. I wondered if you knew.”

Brawn released Windcharger almost immediately, commanding, “I need my One’s location, Twincharge!”

“Of course. All favors between they and I are concluded anyway. They’re in the Underground,” Twincharge offered. “There’s a passage not far from the intersection between Nexus and Alchemist.” He glanced at Gears, adding, “I know you’d prefer not to go anywhere near there, just as I wouldn’t.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Gears cut him off coolly. “We’re going there to retrieve Huffer. Care to lend us a hand?”

“I just did,” Twincharge stated unconcernedly. “This is as far as I go and I do hope it helps. There were…some pretty strong signs that he wasn’t there by choice.”

As Twincharge strode off, Gears ex-vented lightly and Brawn glanced at him. “You sure?” he questioned mildly, uninterested to go further into it.

“You really think I’m going to trust him to have your back?” Gears shot back, frowning at Windcharger and then knitting his fingers together, cracking them in advance. “This is going to be eventful.”


	20. Chapter 20

He could hold out, Huffer decided, yelping like a wounded turbo-puppy as he was slung against the wall behind him, denting the span of his lower back. A fist was reeling at his face next and he barely had time to tense his jaw before static burst into his vision.

Letting himself slide onto the floor to recapture control of his vents, Huffer made a quick tally as the mech trashing him paused. That was the _fifth_ shot to the helm that his guard had presented to him and each had been nastier than the last. Even so, he had to hold out.

A span of time wasn’t easy to come by in this room, lit only by two orb lamps on the far side near the door, but Huffer was fairly sure several joors had gone by since he’d been brought here. He had returned to awareness, sluggish and dazed, to see numb, tingly legs twisting and turning underneath him, feet scraping along the ground.

 _Those are mine_ , he recalled belatedly, starting to lift his helm so he could look around and then wondering, _Where are my arms?_ It was then that he’d sensed the stasis cuffs. His second returning memory had been that Remix and Wheelwell liked to incapacitate him before they did something unsavory. Someone else obviously intended the same. Stifling panic, he had tried to remain as limp and quiet as possible, letting his memory return on its own schedule.

It took longer than he cared to admit, but eventually he did remember. An energon cube…He’d felt dizzy and fallen in that alley…and then there was the sickening feeling of someone’s arms dragging him off. It wasn’t unlike the sensation he felt now, but he pushed that thought away, refusing to tense. He had been abducted, but who would want to and why? How long had it been? It was no longer nighttime, so had Brawn and Gears noticed his absence? Were they looking for him? Were they calling? Seized by this idea, he tried to ping their comm. system, only to find with dismay that his comm. link had been pulled off his audial. He couldn’t send a distress call!

“It’s close, right?” one of his captors questioned, startling him. He was relieved that his flinch wasn’t large enough to be detected through the hands of whoever was carrying him.

“No, Kiln, we’re about halfway there,” another mech replied evenly.

 _Kiln, Kiln_ …Huffer mulled it over frantically, his spark throbbing. He knew that name from somewhere, but his processor was still shaking off the dredges of whatever they had given him. Whenever he tried to grasp the pictures with that name, it floated further away. He’d heard it in a happier time, when it was the three of them…but where had they been?

“Just a nanoklik. Highstake, help me,” Kiln ordered, hefting Huffer up. The engineer relaxed his frame as he was readjusted, shuttering his optics as much as he could while still managing to get a glimpse of his surroundings. It was all it took for him not to shriek as he recognized the area.

 _Oh, frag, it’s Alchemist_ , he grasped, flattening his EM field against his frame so his terror couldn’t be read. _They’re taking me to Alchemist!_ If he was going to survive this, he needed to escape right now, while they weren’t aware he was awake, and if these stasis cuffs on him were what he suspected, he might just be able to do it. When he was with his old team, he’d learned quickly that older models like this weren’t as effective on mechs with his frame type because his hands weren’t nearly as wide as his wrists. With a bit of wriggling, he could slip out of them.

That he did, screeching, swinging and kicking wildly at the two mechs closest and taking them to the ground, scrambling upright only for three bots up ahead, two mechs and a femme, to swarm him, using their weight to force him down. He was proud to say he’d put up a Pit of a fight, leaving dents and scratches on each captor before the one with grotesquely long arms, probably the one who’d dragged him out of the alley, upended him by one foot. He’d managed to strike at the mech’s right shoulder, earning a poorly stifled growl of pain before the left arm came to help the right, seizing his free foot and wrenching him back and forth through the air before promptly thrashing him against the ground. The last he’d heard was the previously calm mech, the one who’d addressed Kiln, cursing at everyone else for not securing him correctly.

The _second_ time he’d come online, he’d found himself in this unknown room, his entire frame aching, with the one Kiln had called Highstake on guard. That was when he had remembered the circumstances under which he had met them: the carnival. The troupe had abducted him, though he still didn’t know why, and the tricks were now on them, as they had simply put the same stasis cuffs back on. Before he had tried escaping again, Highstake had noticed he was alert.

Now Huffer was receiving his punishment for his escape attempt during transit and, perhaps, for the fact that Highstake hadn’t gotten in many blows. As long as it kept him occupied, Huffer knew he should take advantage of it, working the cuffs as he was tossed about and goading the other mech on as much as he could. If he could weary him beforehand…He tried to think of things Brawn and Gears might say, though they sounded almost laughable coming from _his_ mouth.

“C’mon, lightweight! If they put you on guard duty, they’re obviously hoping you’ll get some practice time in throwing punches!” he would cry, cackling almost hysterically at himself. It helped that Highstake thought he was laughing at _him_ , though the angrier he got, the more the blows actually hurt. That meant Huffer had to toughen up his verbal blows to counter it.

“What rank are you in your pace?” he questioned, grimacing and rotating his wrists behind his back. “ **Trilitare**? **Quanidre**? Whatever you are, I—I think you should know that whoever’s lower than you could probably do better roughing me up.” He watched the mech stiffen, fists clenching warningly, and he went on, almost smiling. “Aww, you don’t like whoever’s under you that much, do you? Who is it? The—the one with the wings is in charge. It wouldn’t be the femme; they’re practically rankless, but respected. Is it Kiln?” He considered. “No, not him. He was giving you an order when he told you to help him carry me. That means…ohh, you’ve got Arms under you! H-How does it feel, knowing his rank doesn’t matter, that he’s _still_ more valuable than you are?”

Snarling in rage, Highstake seized up one of the lampstands from nearby, tearing off the protective covering over the orb light. It had just become an ion staff, Huffer realized, having no time to cringe before the improvised weapon was stabbed into a groove of his armor. This was _real_ pain, Huffer realized, howling as the charge ran into him and then slumping onto his knees and gasping when it let off after what seemed like a centivorn.

“How does it feel,” Highstake shot back triumphantly, “to know that no one’s coming for you?”

Huffer whimpered as he tried to recover from what had just happened. He had gone too far with that last one, he decided. He wasn’t adapting to this situation with the gravity it deserved; Brawn would hate him for what he’d brought upon himself. He still didn’t answer the question, twisting his arms and regretting how it stung his nervecircuits. He had to hurry now, before Highstake felt inclined to do it again.

“Hello, Highstake,” another voice came from the door, capturing the attention of the room’s occupants. Huffer wasn’t sure he wanted to spare the strength of looking when he should be using it to sit up, so he stayed quiet and let Highstake deal with the newcomer.

“Oh, our trusty accountant,” Highstake greeted flatly, moving toward the door. “What can I do for you?”

“I need to deliver this data pad to Incinerator,” the accountant replied. “Where can I find one of your pace-mates to take it to him?”

“Are you implying that I can’t do something as simple as that?” Highstake demanded incredulously.

“I meant no offense,” the accountant protested, giving Huffer a surge of satisfaction that helped him straighten. Without even intending to, the newcomer was confirming everything that Huffer had said.

“Give it here,” Highstake commanded, snatching the pad away. “And here, take the staff. You watch the prisoner while I deliver this to Cin. If he squirms too much or talks too much, give him a nice charge with this. Hopefully _you’re_ competent enough to handle that, Cardsharp?” With that Highstake stalked off, the accountant twisting slightly to accommodate his exit.

Huffer’s optics widened and after a klik or two he lifted his helm to stare at the mech across the room, who pivoted in time to lock optics with him. There was a klik or two of silence and then the accountant spread his arms out questioningly.

“Does something interest you?”

“You…” Huffer spat hoarsely, rebooting his vocalizer to continue, “Your name is _Cardsharp?_ ”

“I can’t see how that’s important for you to know,” Cardsharp remarked, his optics narrowing as he smiled condescendingly.

Blinking several times, Huffer let his optics drift to the ground as he thought back to the most emotional conversation he and Brawn had shared.

_“I had five pace-mates. Blowsweep, Ignition, Hitch, Overboard…and my One was Cardsharp. A few vorns passed and everything was pretty nice. Then Cardsharp started acting off. Turned out he had gotten himself involved with an Underground organization, something criminal…When I turned my back…”_

“You Unraveled your pace,” Huffer gasped, ice seeping into his spark as he jerked his helm back up, gaping at the other mech in horror. “You shot your leader!”

Cardsharp’s smile fled faster than a flock of bolt-bats from sunlight. Lifting the ion staff, he poised it at his chest and demanded in a menacing hiss, “How do you know that? Did you find one of my old pace-mates?”

Swallowing hard, Huffer kept his gaze fixed on the humming tip of the staff, processing the confirmation for a rigid minute. He had the Unraveler, the _real_ one, right in front of him. This was the mech who had caused Brawn so much pain…

“I—I found more than that,” he announced tremulously. “I found your leader!” Blinding white pain sizzled around the edges of his vision as Cardsharp thrust the staff onto him, the charge nearly overloading his processor.

“Brawn is _dead!_ ” Cardsharp shouted, his words barely computing through the agony. When the torture finally let off, Huffer miraculously managed to keep himself balanced upright, his screams petering off into a weak moan.

“No…no, he isn’t dead. He’s ours now,” he whispered with a quivery smile. “He…made me his One. We have a **sequein** …”

Cardsharp was silent for a long minute and then directed the staff at him again, making him cringe in anticipation.

“Blowsweep dealt with him,” the Unraveler snarled.

Slumping against the wall behind him and shuddering through the aftershocks of his sensory net, Huffer lowered his helm in a semblance of a nod. “I know, I know…but he dealt with him by _sparing_ him. Brawn is leader of a real pace now, not—not whatever you meant to wring out of him.”

Cardsharp seemed to read the honesty in his face and his own features softened in realization and astonishment. Then, rolling his shoulders and leaning his weight on the staff, he scoffed, as though in amusement. “You really believe that? That’s terribly small of you,” he proclaimed, laughing incredulously. “Brawn doesn’t make _real_ paces; if what you’re telling me is true, he burns through them like junk fuel! Oh, I can’t _wait_ for you to suffer what I did.”

Huffer’s shaking frame stilled. For a long, silent minute he stared at a point beyond Cardsharp, focusing on the wall but seeing something quite different. He saw the scarring across his leader’s back from the cannon blast set off—by this mech. He saw the shame and fear trying to stifle hope in Brawn’s optics—because of this mech. Like a keen wind, cold rage stirred, boiling up from the pit of his internals. When it finally reached his spark, his fuse, his hesitation vanished entirely.

“What do you know,” he roared, “about _suffering?!_ ” Almost of their own volition his hands tore from the cuffs, one wrenching the staff away and turning it on him. The other mech howled as he was pinned between the wall and the ion staff, thrashing and flailing, Huffer’s free fingertips pressing indents into the cables of his neck.

“You don’t know anything— _nothing!_ —but, oh, will you _learn!_ ” He accented his sentence by pulling Cardsharp away from the wall and slamming him into it more times than he could count, until energon leaked from several of the other mech's joints. Sneering contemptuously, Huffer leaned in, the ion staff still buzzing as he pulled it out of Cardsharp's frame, all systems revving with adrenaline, EM field fully exposed so Cardsharp would be aware of exactly what he was dealing with. “You can give me no reason to spare you and I’m fairly sure if I’ve learned anything by being One to Brawn, it’s that Unravelers need to be given their due punishment. What’s more, you gave my leader a wound that will never, _ever_ stop hurting! I feel I should do the same, but I’m on a schedule. If I had the time, I would kill you every way I could, just short of actually snuffing your spark. So look me in the optics and you can be sure of this: you _will never_ come near my pace again. It won’t matter how careful you are to sneak up on us; I’ll know. I don’t know just yet if I’ll tear apart your internals or your externals first, so if you show up again, I have a decision to make.”

Cardsharp suppressed a shiver, but still had the audacity to talk back, his words a bare croak. “Why are you crying?”

Huffer blinked, finding his optics were indeed wet. He drew in his vents. “Because despite everything I could do to you…I know Brawn would _still_ deserve better. Better than either of us.” With that he crashed Cardsharp into the wall one last time, dropped him, and bolted down the dark hallway he found outside, clutching the ion staff protectively and quaking not just at what might be coming to stop his escape but also what he had found in himself. He didn’t intend to touch it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just... *hugs Huffer quietly* I don't think anyone could be the same after that, do you?
> 
> It's a small, small sector.


	21. Chapter 21

As they fairly galloped toward the Nexus-Alchemist dividing line, Windcharger wished he could somehow stir up Gears’ reservations further so they wouldn’t have to go anywhere near the place. He wished Huffer could have been held anywhere else. In fact there was a lot he currently wished he could change.

 _As long as I don’t use my magnetism above ground, where the Alchemist population could see, I’ll be safe_ , he reminded himself, clenching his hands tightly as he quickened his pace, catching up and nearly passing Brawn, who didn’t even glance at him. He was focused, strong, surprisingly calm…

 _What a pace-leader. The type of leader I would want_.

Despite his own fears of their destination, Windcharger couldn’t help but absorb the gravity of what this mission was. He felt the deep veins of concern hollowed out in his chest and the questions rising for the missing mech’s safety and yet he had never even _met_ Huffer or said anything to him. He’d simply seen him across the way, rescuing bots from what Windcharger had done.

That put this in perspective, but it also brought him a new realization: he was running alongside pace-mates, on the way to rescue their One…like Windcharger was with them, one of them. He was fully aware it was just a fantasy, if the glares Gears sent him were any indication, but it was a bittersweet illusion and he held onto it.

Skidding to a stop at the dividing line, Windcharger watched Brawn walk the lengths of it, stomping on ground panels and trailing his fingers along them testingly. Gears brushed past Windcharger to do the same and he could sense that the **sequein** was jittery, much more so than his face told.

“What can I do?” Windcharger burst out, impatiently shifting his weight back and forth. After everything they had done to get to this point, he didn’t want to simply stand here while the two of them were being proactive.

“Hold up,” Gears ordered, crouching beside a panel on the far left of the line. Ghosting a hand through the air over it, he muttered, “Some kind of light beam around here somewhere, I think.”

“No need,” Brawn informed him, rearing back and smashing a fist through the door, prying at the edges to widen the hole and then adding, “Get ready,” before lowering himself down. Gears vented decisively and followed suit, glancing over his shoulder at Windcharger.

“You coming?” he asked shortly.

“Of course I am. Just hurry up before we’re seen!” Windcharger shot back, earning a look of surprise. He was pleased with his comeback but he couldn’t help wondering if he saw movement from within Alchemist. If someone was coming to seize them for experimentation…

The slide down the tunnel was slick with oily grime, earning a disgusted groan from Gears and a glower from Brawn. Windcharger didn’t mind much; Kiln’s oil had done worse to him in the past. His spark turned a little at the realization that Kiln could very well be here, standing between them and their objective. He shook off these thoughts once he saw Brawn was forging ahead, Gears not far behind.

The tunnel maintained a straight line up to a point where several subsections branched off into chambers, some able to hold only two mechs, others wide enough for fifty. Windcharger had suspected the Underground might be laid out this way, but he couldn’t imagine how it supported the structures above. Brawn kept glancing up at the ceiling over their helms—the ground level. It would be easy to become paranoid of a collapse, Windcharger realized, especially when a building was recently leveled on top of a mech. He swallowed hard as Brawn drew in his vents, rolled his shoulders claustrophobically and coughed.

“I lived in this sector for vorns, Brawn,” Gears announced shortly, startling Windcharger. “If it holds the NET tower, it holds most anything.”

Before Brawn could answer, a chorus of grunts and yelps echoed down to them from one of the subsections. Pushing between the pair, Windcharger thanked Primus briefly for his attuned audials as he pinpointed the leftward junction the noise came from. He found several mechs, none of whom he recognized, disabled and flung onto the floor, congesting the entryway to one of the wider chambers with a vaulted ceiling, which meant they were underneath a slope in the ground above. Windcharger scrambled over the senseless frames and gasped as he recognized the mech across the chamber, pounding and kicking on the far wall in some desperate attempt for an exit.

“You!” Windcharger called as he sprinted half the distance of the room, causing the mech to whirl around in alarm and raise a crackling ion staff. Windcharger leveled his hands defensively in return, but Brawn arrived at his side and slapped them down.

“Huffer! Huffer, stand down!” Brawn commanded urgently. “It’s us!” It took the engineer a nanoklik to process the words and then he tensed and charged at them for reunion. “C’mon, hurry,” Brawn encouraged, opening his arms, worry and joy mingling in his EM field. Windcharger didn’t get to sense it for long, as Gears managed to launch himself over the frames of the mechs in the doorway. He skidded out once he saw Brawn had stopped, but too late—he plowed into him from behind. The pace-leader wouldn’t have moved had he been expecting it, but the element of surprise caused him to stagger, flail and collide with his One in a defective pouncehug, promptly flattening him onto the ground.

Gears yelped, scrambling out of their tangle as he found his face mere inches from the ion staff. Brawn rolled off in the opposite direction and then grabbed Huffer’s shoulders, helping him sit up and hugging him properly, muttering, “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you.” Windcharger stifled inappropriate laughter at what he’d just witnessed and tried to let them have this minute to themselves, stepping back but still watching. Huffer had relaxed enough to start shaking and Brawn loosened his hold, hands hovering over the damage marring Huffer’s armor.

“Slag, Huffer, these burns are bad! What— _who_ did this to you?” he demanded fiercely. Huffer simply leaned closer and didn’t answer, lifting his gaze over Brawn’s shoulder. His optics went very round, glistening with dread, and his vents hitched. Windcharger pivoted to follow his gaze.

“You can’t be allowed to leave this place alive,” Incinerator announced coldly, turbines rumbling as he left the ground to loom over them. Boomerang followed suit, jetpack filling the air with its sickeningly sweet smell, and the thrusters in Highstake’s feet hummed, but he didn’t lift off yet. Gears’ face darkened as his frame lashed upright and his own turbo ignited, steam rising from the ground underneath the both of them.

Kiln brought the power nozzles on his arms to bear and Huffer rose to face him, swinging his ion staff up with such force it seemed to leave a rent of light in the air. Strain’s arms unlocked and Brawn brought himself to his proper height, tall and foreboding even as he faced the other pace-leader from the ground.

“I’d say the same to you, Incinerator,” he claimed. “I’m declaring **venfyarm**. You and your One against my own and I.”

“How does **venfyarm** apply to your kind?” another voice shot back, its owner emerging between Strain and Kiln. Windcharger recognized him as their accountant, though he was nearly as damaged as Huffer and held a cannon which seemed like it should belong on an axle but had been reformatted. He also wore an expression of venom Windcharger had never seen on him before. Both it and the cannon were aimed fully at Brawn, whose frame had gone limp where he stood. They stared at each other for a long series of kliks, one appalled, the other grim. Windcharger swallowed, watching Brawn accept this revelation little by little, whatever it was. It was only a matter of time before—

With a howl that rose to an air-shattering scream, Brawn tore across the room at Cardsharp. Incinerator and Boomerang swooped low to intercept and with their combined weight Brawn was somersaulting back the way he had come. With that the chamber erupted, combatants rallying for the assault.

Twirling his staff and flinging sparks, Huffer tore at Cardsharp in Brawn’s stead, dodging several blasts from the cannon and springing at it, hoping to use his staff to short it out. Kiln barreled into him from the side, letting him skid to the ground as he neatly rolled back to his feet and aimed a shot from one of his launchers. The former captive took advantage of their closeness, sweeping Kiln’s legs out from underneath him. He fell hard but recovered quickly, just in time to somersault away as Huffer used the staff’s weight to push himself to his feet and then brought the weapon down hard, scorching the ground in Kiln’s wake and still pursuing.

Cardsharp went for the more direct approach, lunging onto Huffer’s back and giving Kiln the time to regain his balance. As Huffer staggered under the weight, Cardsharp tried to get an arm around his throat, only for Huffer to clamp a hand around his forearm, crushing the plating and drawing a cry of agony. Using the grip he had on the arm, Huffer doubled over and flung Cardsharp forward to the floor, only to be blasted and overturned by a flood of water from Kiln.

Brawn was struggling to find an opportunity to strike at his enemies; the two experienced flyers would sweep out of reach as he tossed and turned in every direction to grab at them and bring them down, his cries of rage barely heard underneath the roar of their engines. Like predatory birds Boomerang and Incinerator dive-bombed their prey, sweeping into him only to veer sharply back to their place of safety above him. Windcharger watched Brawn leap back to his feet and gather his strength for the next assault, though so far he hadn’t been quick enough to grab hold of either attacker, either by jumping or by striking when he thought they were close enough. He looked like a sparkling, trying to retaliate against tyrants in a play area when he was clearly outmatched.

 _Sparkling_ …Before he was quite sure about the plan he’d just formed, Windcharger swept out his hands and latched onto the other mech with his magnetism, hurling him skyward. Brawn yowled in surprise but adapted as he fell, snagging Boomerang’s jetpack and taking her down with him, fiercely piledriving her into the ground on impact and then flinging her limp frame to the side, out of the way. Incinerator nosedived, leveling out before he hit the floor and slamming Brawn against the wall at his back.

Thus far Gears and Highstake had remained close to the ground, lashing out every now and then but maintaining a choppy and unpredictable rhythm of offensive and defensive. Highstake looked past Gears just for a nanoklik and saw that Boomerang had fallen; they were down one flyer. He and Gears rocketed toward the ceiling almost in unison, their frames revolving through empty space and tangling as they met at their thrusters’ peak and began their joint descent. Below, Strain awaited them, arms uncoiling from his body to grab at Gears and rip him down from his high ground.

Treading water, Huffer seized up his staff and pounced with a winded cry at the **quanidre** from behind but Kiln bowled him over yet again, this time with a torrent of oil. Incinerator’s brother advanced, grinning wickedly as the oil kept coming, and Windcharger was gripped with the realization that all Kiln was waiting for was a spark from the ion staff. Gears wrenched his attention away from Highstake, cutting power to his thrusters completely.

He freefell, narrowly missing Strain’s arms, and just when he was about to make impact, he swung his legs at Kiln with all of his strength, turbo igniting with charge. The fire flew along the oil trail to its source and Windcharger gasped, shielding himself from the following explosion. Once the smoke cleared he saw Kiln lying in a heap on the floor several yards from where he’d been standing, entire frame smoldering. Somewhere to Windcharger’s right Incinerator shouted his brother's name, but it was drowned out by a reedy scream from Gears. Strain had latched onto the **sequein** by his arms and was wrenching them out beyond their limits. Gears kicked and panted and whined, but his feet were pedaling air and after their previous discharge his thrusters didn’t have the power to pry him free.

“Gears!” Brawn hollered, grunting as Incinerator heaved him back and forth between the side wall and the back wall before pinning him in the corner joining them. Huffer was in the same predicament, struggling minutely as Cardsharp wrapped around him in an armlock. Strain shifted, stretching Gears’ arms just an increment more with a warning _crack_ and a helpless moan from his victim. Brawn and Huffer both yelped in alarm and struggled more persistently, but somehow Windcharger knew they wouldn’t get there in time.

He had no time to think; he simply acted, locking his magnetism onto the ceiling above and tearing at it. It crumpled like a shammy under his hands and broke loose from where it belonged. Windcharger felt the fluctuations around him building up power and speed, burning through the air as he brought the twisted metal careening down. Highstake was clipped during the descent and knocked out of the air, spiraling to the ground like a weakened pidgeonoid, and Strain had no time to even look up before the mass Windcharger guided crashed onto him. The hands opened and with a gasp of combined relief and distress, Gears plunged also.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Venfyarm: "Vengeance for the First". When a pace-leader has caused harm to another's One, one party can call this for a proper duel, leaders and Ones dueling together. As Cardsharp pointed out, however, this has never been done with someone dubbed an Unraveler, so it didn't work out too well. :/


	22. Chapter 22

Gears plummeted from where he had been lifted, screaming more for the pain of waving his arms than a fear of falling, though he was trying desperately and failing to ignite his augmentation. His thrusters sputtered and waned, misfiring uselessly. The impact would cause him a good deal of damage, perhaps worse than he’d been given even when the building had collapsed on him.

It was at that point, when he was on that train of thought, that he felt a sudden jerk and he stopped, suspended in midair with a deep hum vibrating all around him. Blinking against the urge to black out, Gears looked around to find Windcharger using his own augmentation to support him and gentle his landing; somehow he even directed a blanket of the pressure surrounding Gears to hug his shoulders so they wouldn’t be jostled as he was settled onto the ground.

The pressure supporting him was abruptly torn away and, groaning through clenched teeth, Gears sat up to see what had happened. Highstake had recovered from the roof smacking him and had crossed the room in mere kliks, wrestling Windcharger to the ground and pinning him with a thruster poised on top of each of Windcharger’s hands, threatening to scorch them. Windcharger froze, venting hard, optics wide as they locked with those of the mech standing over him.

 _He saved my life_ , Gears realized belatedly, lurching to his feet and breaking into a trot. It was only fair to return the favor.

Somewhere during the fight, the mech Huffer was grappling with had dropped his cannon. Squalling at full volume as his shoulders cracked further, Gears hefted it up from the floor and opened fire. Because of his arms’ dislocation, his aim was off, but it was able to distract Highstake long enough that Windcharger could maneuver his hands up _into_ the thrusters above and twist his legs off balance. He then lifted his opponent with his magnetism, pounding him first against the wall and then against the floor.

Reassured by Highstake’s cries that Windcharger had regained control, Gears let the cannon fall to the floor with a heavy clank, optics tracking his pace-mates.

Brawn had managed to wedge his legs between himself and Incinerator. He kicked the larger mech off and slid down the wall onto the floor. Before he could rise, Incinerator came at him again, but Brawn moved to meet him, locking arms around his legs and lifting him off his feet. Incinerator landed on his back and almost seemed to ricochet up to a sitting position, only for Brawn to lunge at his face with a snarl and shove him back down for a proper mauling.

He raked at Incinerator’s chest, his throat, and finally turned wild optics on his wings. As soon as Brawn reached for the sensitive plating, Incinerator swept his hands under Brawn’s arms and flipped him helm over heelstrut.

As the smaller leader landed on hands and knees, the larger spun around, gripped the backpack upgrade protecting Brawn’s scarred plating and used it as leverage to swing him through the air, where he smashed into Windcharger and broke his concentration, releasing Highstake from his hold. “Swap!” Brawn commanded, hauling Windcharger up so they stood back to back, Windcharger facing Incinerator and Brawn Highstake.

Huffer wasn’t faring too well, writhing hopelessly as the mech locking him down tightened his hold, grinning savagely, obviously taking pleasure in the anguish flaring Huffer’s armor. At the same time he was trying to lean into the armlock and relieve some of the tension, Huffer was groping with his free arm for the ion staff, just out of his reach.

The stranger noticed what he was doing and kicked the staff, spinning the handle away, but in doing so he brought the closest end, the prong, just a little closer. Huffer seized the pole just underneath the orb and stabbed it at the same leg the mech had just used, loosening the hold enough that he could take advantage of the slick grime on his frame and slip out.

Once he was standing again, Huffer poised the staff, clutching it tightly in wet, oily hands. “I told you what I’d do to you, Cardsharp!” he warned, putting a name to the face of the other mech, now limping to face him. “Back off!”

“Why don’t you make good on your word?” Cardsharp hissed, advancing a step or two and positioning himself in front of the damaged, sparking weapon. “Do it! Run me through!”

Something wasn’t right, Gears realized, frantically scanning the scene as Huffer steeled himself, starting to reposition his hands for a forward thrust. _Wait! The orb sparking, the oil on his hands_ —

“No! No, Huffer, don’t!” Gears hollered in a panic, catching his pace-mate’s attention. While he had saved Huffer from being set alight for the second time in this battle, it gave Cardsharp the offensive. Twisting the weapon out of the engineer’s hands, he swept it around and sent a charge to Huffer’s knee, bashing him in the face with the hilt as he crumpled. Gasping, Gears wrapped his arms around the cannon, silencing several crimson pain indicators as he fumbled to turn it. He glanced between the barrel and his target, who stood triumphantly above as Huffer stirred.

“Now you can die with the knowledge that I’m going to kill Brawn—right after I kill you!” Cardsharp proclaimed as the dazed mech struggled to stand, the smoking joint in his knee betraying him. “How ironic that you’ll join the Allspark by your own weapon.” With that he reared up and Gears’ spark surged into his throat as he strained to lift the cannon and find the trigger, to intervene.

“ _Cardsharp!_ ”

His name was the only warning Cardsharp received before Brawn was launching through the air at him, flinging Highstake into an unconscious heap on the floor in the same motion as he fairly smashed Cardsharp under his weight, clamping his hands around his throat, their faces an inch or so apart.

“You try to take a pace-mate away from me?” Brawn bellowed, the smaller mech thrashing underneath him. “Never again! Do you hear me?! _Never!!_ ” A disjointed readjustment had both of them kneeling, Brawn squeezing Cardsharp like he had Huffer when they’d arrived. “I’m going to _maim_ you, Pit-spawn,” he snarled, “like you did my pace!”

Cardsharp’s arms flailed about, one grazing the staff, now broken into several pieces. Seizing up the sharpest shard, he stabbed whatever was closest of Brawn’s armor: his vents. Brawn stiffened with a pained growl but he only tightened the clasp of his arms.

“Unlike you,” he ground out, “I—I _face_ my enemies. I don’t shoot them in the back!”

 _I’m not above that_. As soon as another fragment flashed between Cardsharp’s fingers, Gears braced himself and pulled the trigger. When he pried his optics open, he saw Brawn lean in close, muttering in Cardsharp’s graying audial before letting the lifeless frame slide out of his hands onto the floor.

Gears dropped the smoking cannon as though it had burned him—though his hands were numb, it very well could have—and he let his arms fall limp as Brawn plodded doggedly forward, one hand pressed against his vents and the other outstretched to help Huffer up.

The hum of Windcharger’s magnetism stole Gears’ attention. His rescuer was lashing out as quickly as he could, yet Incinerator still managed to outrun it, spiraling through the air with grace belying his size.

“You should never have tried to involve me!” Windcharger shouted, denting one of the walls in Incinerator’s wake. “You should never have forced me to do it!”

“Forced you?!” Incinerator echoed scornfully, ducking another sweep of the magnetism which caused the roof to creak. “You _volunteered_ to do it! You simply weren’t ready for the cost!”

“I _never_ could be!” Pursuing as Incinerator rocketed across the chamber, Windcharger cried, “I’ll see them at night, I _know_ I will! Don’t you?!”

“Oh, yes! Tell me, then: what will be one more?!” Incinerator veered without warning, the roar of his engines rising to a screech as he prepared to dive, only to skid back upright in disbelief as cables uncoiled from the hole in the ground level Windcharger had created when dispatching Strain.

“Nexus Sector Police! Get down, get down!”

Gears gaped as several ground units slid down the cables and approached them, blasters at the ready. As four aerial units seized Incinerator, Gears, his pace-mates, and Windcharger were ushered toward the opening and four more flyers lifted them back above ground where a team of medics awaited them.

 _Who the frag called them?_ Gears wondered, but the question was fleeting as he returned his attention to his pace-mates’ wellbeing. As soon as he was lifted, Brawn had coughed, started choking and hadn’t stopped since, energon oozing rapidly from both his mouth and vents. Huffer was running on the high of his adrenaline, repelling those who would be treating the worse of his injuries and screeching in terror at Brawn for his recklessness. His commotion ceased abruptly as one of the medics jabbed him with an auto-injector and induced a power-down. Gears took his place without a thought.

“You never got your vents filtered, Brawn, you stupid, uncooperative…!” When Gears’ processor finished that sentence, he was rebooting in a blank, white room. His first thought was of NET and his first instinct to scream, but a hand clamped over his mouth before he could.

“Gears, Gears! It’s me,” Windcharger shushed him, removing his hand and then cringing when Gears burst.

“Where are Huffer and Brawn? What have they done to them?!”

“They’re fine!” Windcharger hissed. “Just keep it down and look!”

Following the pointing finger, Gears looked to his left and found his pace-mates, safe and whole. Even so he didn’t let himself relax, sitting up in the berth so he could stare at them more openly. Immediately beside Gears, Brawn was missing most of his chest plating, which made him look smaller, but his vents were cycling strong and clear. On the far side, near the window, Huffer was crisscrossed with bandages and had one knee propped up on a roll of padding. Both were passively comatose, unaware of their **sequein's** apprehension for them.

“Are they—?” Gears tried.

“Shh!” Windcharger cut him off again. “They’re not in stasis, they’re _recharging_. You’ll wake them up if you’re not careful.”

Once he processed the readout on the spark pulse monitors, smooth and steady, Gears allowed himself to unwind inch by inch. They were in a hospital room, not a science center, though the two weren’t as different as he wished they could be. Ex-venting shakily, Gears wrapped his arms around himself and returned his gaze to Windcharger.

“H-How long?” he muttered.

“Since the police found us down there?” At Gears’ nod, Windcharger hummed in thought. “About a joor and a half. They treated your arms as soon as they sedated you—same with Huffer’s burns. It was a little touch-and-go, but they got Brawn’s vents stabilized and filtered. You’ve all been in recharge since then.”

Gears ex-vented again, more heavily. Even if he had been recharging, just remembering made him want to retreat back into oblivion. His hands shuddered suddenly and he stuffed them under his thermal tarp, but Windcharger had already seen. His optics were softening with compassion which Gears hated but needed and he leaned forward, expression solemn.

“You did what you had to do with Cardsharp,” he told him resolutely. “You were defending Brawn.” He leaned back again in his chair by the berth as Gears squirmed, glaring hard at the tarp over his legs so he wouldn’t reveal the sick feeling swirling through his internals.

“I recognized it,” he stated, lifting his helm to meet Windcharger’s gaze. At the other mech’s bewildered expression, he clarified, his vocals flat. “The hum of your magnetism…I remember it. I heard it right before the building came down.”

Windcharger recoiled into his chair, but not before Gears sensed a spike of fear in his EM field. He held up a hand to stop him from bolting, letting it tremble in midair and hold Windcharger’s attention.

“You…” Gears huffed, shaking his helm. “You saved me…after you nearly killed me, after you killed others.” Swallowing hard, he concluded softly, “You saved me and _I_ killed someone.”

From there he wasn’t sure which of them dissolved into tears first. It probably didn’t matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew :( At least Cardsharp is done and over with. Gears killed him with the cannon he had used to shoot Brawn so long ago, which he reformatted to be a handheld cannon.  
> ...  
> You're wondering what Brawn whispered to Cardsharp as he died, aren't you? 
> 
>  
> 
> _“How ironic that you’ll join the Allspark by your own weapon.” ___


	23. Chapter 23

_How I wish they would stop fussing over me. Kiln and Boomerang are the ones who required the medical attention in the first place_.

“Roll your shoulders, please,” the medic instructed. Stifling a small sigh, Strain obeyed, maintaining a stoic demeanor even as his shoulders rattled warningly. The medic huffed, looking frustrated, and leaned in close again to examine them further. Strain knew he was doing his best, but it only served to prove that these medics had never known how to treat his augmentation—at least, not nearly as well as they did back home.

 _Why won’t they simply let me do my own augmentation maintenance? The surface wounds are their area of expertise_. Strain considered mentioning this to the mech prodding and probing him, but he refrained, simply because it was about time he checked on his pace-mates anyway. He glanced at the troupe, sitting on benches in the police station with medics tending to them, just as he was.

Boomerang was having her neck locked in a brace as two officers asked her questions. It served as both an interrogation and a testing of her processor, needed for her helm injury, but she refused to answer any questions pertaining to the troupe’s activity. Highstake was having his thrusters examined and dents smoothed out, but unlike their pace’s One, he was anything but calm. His optics were constantly on the move, analyzing their surroundings for any kind of escape route, though Strain doubted he was going to find one.

Kiln had only just joined them from the hospital where his burns had been treated; he was still shaking off the sedation they had put on him, so he was rather serene and quiet, leaning against his brother’s shoulder. Incinerator had moved from Kiln’s side only when he was ordered, but Strain had gotten to know him well, very well. He could see how worried the leader was in the low, overwrought pose of his wings and shoulders and his gaze followed each of them with just as much speed as Highstake’s.

Strain had always found it interesting that Incinerator had a unique look he rewarded to each of them. Each would assess their wellbeing and question their state of mind and the pace-mate always responded with the same look in return: _I’m alright and I’m loyal; I’ll always be. Don’t worry about me._

They knew Cin always would worry about them, though. Despite everything they had done against other paces among their people, in some inexplicable way they were a pace too—perhaps not in others’ sense of the word, but certainly in theirs. They had done it all together and Incinerator still took it upon himself to look after them. Even now he hadn’t given that up and none of them had expected him to.

Incinerator’s optics now held more reassurances than usual; he was allowing some of his emotions to show—mildly, but it was a big step for him. Without saying a word, he was telling them that he knew they might be upset or scared but whatever happened…he was alright, he was loyal, and he was asking them if they would be again.

Strain resisted the urge to swallow when that question turned to him. This point in time was more bittersweet than he would have expected; it would be the first time he didn’t say yes. He could sense the confusion from Incinerator when he looked away, but it wouldn’t last long. He had heard those footsteps approaching, the ones he would recognize no matter how long it had been. The medic gave him another exasperated frown as he shrugged off the ministrations and rose, holding himself with the bearing befitting of his station, though it wasn’t quite his and hadn’t been for vorns.

The other medics paused as well, glancing distrustfully at the newcomer. It was incredibly rare to see a **verriese** in their city, much less alongside a Culumexian. Strain didn’t have this reaction; he knew both of them well.

“Hello, Prowl,” Strain greeted the taller mech first and then the shorter. “Harness.”

“Strain,” the Praxian lieutenant returned civilly. “It’s been a long time—thirty-nine vorns, I believe. I trust it’s been fruitful?”

“Where are the recordings you’ve made and the comm. units you’ve salvaged?” Harness added, folding his arms expectantly. “We’ll need to confiscate them before anyone else in the Underground can get to them.”

In his peripheral vision, Strain could see his pace-mates perking up, bewildered and disconcerted by these words. He didn’t look at them, though he lowered his helm just a fraction as he answered, “You know my price for them. Those—” He gestured at the stasis cuffs, which the medic had removed for his exam. “—are not put on me again.”

“Yes, yes, immunity,” Prowl sighed, thoroughly reluctant but willing. “We’ll need to amass a list of your hideaway locations.”

“Strain?” Kiln gasped, not quite comprehending what was happening. Strain glanced at him and Incinerator’s brother stiffened suddenly. “You’re a—you—you _traitor!_ ”

With this howl he tried to fling himself to his feet, but Incinerator stopped him, pulling him back onto the bench with a few muttered words about his injuries, but his optics were fixed on Strain and they were filled with cold fury. Only their location and the authorities around them were preventing him from doing the same as his brother. Highstake had started hyperventilating as the truth came out and Boomerang wordlessly spat at Strain in disgust. Strain took it willingly, returning his attention to the lawmechs, pushing past them so they would follow him away from the optics and audials of the pace.

“I’d like to discuss the sixth mech in our troupe with you both,” he told them once they were out of range. “Windcharger. I’d like to request immunity for him as well.”

“Impossible!” Prowl exclaimed.

“I’ll vouch for him,” Strain argued. “He wasn’t involved in anything significant, just the leveling of the Nexus Archive.”

“ _Just_ the leveling—How is that insignificant?” Harness demanded. “This is my sector and thirteen of my people were killed because of that mech! We’re going to arrest the son-of-a-scrapheap!”

Strain huffed, finally getting a bit impatient and channeling it through his vocals. “Very well, charge him for it, but keep in mind that he was led to believe it would just be destruction of property. He never knew there were bots inside and when he did realize it, he did his best to recant what he’d done! A medical condition stood in his way. Prowl…please.” He met optics with the taller mech, returning to a more submissive, almost pleading stance, so he could prove how much this meant to him. “…take him into custody if you must, but do what you can for him and I will do what I can for you. This is one of my terms.”

“Fine,” Prowl conceded tersely after a stiff silence. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you. I’ll begin amassing that list of locations for you,” Strain offered politely, moving away from them into an empty room, where he took up a data pad and stylus. About halfway through the list, he hesitated, considering what else he could do and fingering the comm. unit fixed to his audial.

“Hello? Who’s this?”

“Windcharger, wherever you are, please make sure you’re alone,” Strain requested. There was a long silence, through which Strain could feel the ice on the other end of the call.

“I’ll be right back,” Windcharger said at last to whoever he was speaking to. “Nice to meet you, Polevault.” There was a small clatter and then Windcharger addressed him again, his vocals a hiss. “Firstly, I thought you were dead. Secondly, I _wish_ you were. Thirdly, why in the Pit are you calling me?! I don’t want to talk to you!”

Strain ex-vented lightly. It wasn’t any worse a reaction than what he had expected. “I don’t intend to make you talk to me. Just give me a few minutes to explain, if you would.”

“Explain what? There’s nothing to explain, Strain, I know all about you and your fraggin’—”

“You know _very_ little about me, Windcharger,” Strain cut in, his vocals sharpening. “Now listen. Do you…remember when I said that proper preparation prevents poor performance?” At Windcharger’s unfriendly silence, he amended, “Of course you do. It was just before…In any case, I learned that lesson under difficult circumstances. I made an unfortunate mistake in my calculations and set off an explosion that would kill twenty-three bots. Unlike you, I couldn’t bear the guilt of what I had done, so I went AWOL.”

“AWOL from what?” Windcharger demanded.

“The Academy of Cybertronian Law Enforcement, the base set in Praxus. Yes, I was an officer, but as I said, I left my post when civilians died.” Strain swallowed, tapping the stylus agitatedly against the data pad in front of him. “I turned from my sire’s home city to my carrier’s, Culumex, and I laid low here. Then a Praxian friend…perhaps the only true friend I have…got in contact with me. Smokescreen said he had recommended me to his cousin, Prowl, for a long operation. A joint effort was being made between Praxus and Culumex to bring down a section of the Underground and they needed a mech with ties to both, one who could…act as a subversive.”

Windcharger sputtered slightly. “You—you’ve been undercover as a _pace-mate_?” Strain gave him a hum in the affirmative and Windcharger considered. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you need to know. You also need to know that N.S.P.D. is coming to detain you for the destruction of the building.” Strain sighed into the following silence, almost wishing they could be having this conversation face to face. “I’m being given immunity for the crimes I took part in and for abandoning my rank in Praxus—”

“You can’t be!” Windcharger growled. “You were part of so many here! How could they just—”

“ _They_ needed _me_ ,” Strain barked. “I didn’t need them. It was my price. I asked that they do what they can for you and I hope they will follow up on their word. I know how much you regret what you did, Windcharger, and I’m sincerely sorry you did it in the first place.” He paused, uncomfortably rebooting his vocalizer and adding, “It was partially due to my failure. I did my very best to steer Incinerator away from you on many occasions. I offered to put the archive down myself, but Cin would have none of it.”

For a third time there was silence and Strain rebooted his vocalizer again. What else could he say? Helplessness had never been something he was accustomed to, yet Windcharger was managing to coax it out of him with a simple _lack_ of a response.

“What’s going to happen?”

This was familiar territory; he had to answer it with the same detached manner he’d used when he was an officer. “Prowl and Harness will come and find you. You’ll be taken into custody and charged with the—”

“I mean to you,” the younger mech interrupted. “What happens to you?”

 _Astonishing_ , Strain decided. This mech managed to steer the conversation back to him more easily than anyone save his closest friend. He was glad Windcharger wasn’t present now, just so he wouldn’t have to feel self-conscious as he shifted slightly in his seat. “I need to be done with this city. I’ll return to Praxus as a civilian, find my friend and try to…decompress, if you will. There we don’t have paces and I—I can’t help but be thankful. I don’t believe I was made to be part of one. Not everyone is.”

He had to press the comm. unit more firmly against his audial to hear Windcharger when he spoke again, dejectedly. “That’s something we can agree on, I guess. After this, I know better than to hope I’ll be placed.”

Strain hummed again, neither affirming nor denying the words before he smiled, quite certain it was reflected in his voice as he questioned softly, “Don’t others have a say in that?” He clicked the comm. off before Windcharger could respond, wiping the hand that didn’t hold the stylus down his face.

 _That was the first honest conversation I’ve had for thirty-nine vorns_ , he realized, lowering his optics to the list. When he returned to Praxus, Smokescreen would surely be the guiding force of the second. After so long, Strain was looking forward to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Verriese: "larger-frame/outsider", what they call the bots from other cities on Cybertron.
> 
> Ahhh, this chapter was just as satisfying for me as it was for Strain! :3 Surprise!


	24. Chapter 24

_Right in the vents. Why did it have to be the vents?_

Brawn had gone some orns now without his abdominal plating and after alternating between sedation and recharge, he was finally alert enough to feel self-conscious about it—not to mention that the stab wound felt like it needed more protection than the bandaging provided. Cardsharp had maneuvered it right between the slats of his vents into the nearest fuel tank—a painful wound he shouldn’t have been able to inflict which Brawn wanted to cover from prying optics.

 _That seems to be the gist of our relationship_ , he thought acidly. _It…_ seemed _to be_.

It was surprisingly hard for him to accept that Cardsharp was truly gone. Like Slipup, he had watched the life ebb out of him, but he felt detached about it, itching to make absolutely sure. Cardsharp was down in the morgue, a few floors below, but Brawn found himself watching the door to be sure he wouldn’t try to enter and hurt his pace-mates further.

He’d startled from recharge several times to stare at Huffer and Gears and make sure they seemed alright. The first time he’d noticed that Gears’ berth was empty, his spark pulse had skyrocketed, setting off several alarms and bringing a swarm of medics to the room to be sure he wasn’t having a spark flux. When it turned out Gears had gone to use the wash-racks, an embarrassed pace-leader had made up an excuse he didn’t remember.

It was around that time that Polevault had visited, looking for Gears. The two had talked almost aimlessly for a long while and Brawn couldn’t help but wonder how Gears was taking to seeing her again. He had known her when he was… _happy_ , and that might rouse some difficult memories. Gears did seem a bit guarded, like he didn’t want any of them too close, but that had started even before her arrival and Brawn briefly pulled her aside and told her so. She seemed to take it well, fortunately, and went on as if nothing had happened.

When Windcharger had stepped out to take a call, Brawn had coaxed Huffer out of his berth for a walk, privately hoping some time alone with Polevault would do Gears some good. Now his One was shuffling down the corridor, though he was going at the speed of a ground crawler.

“Stop dragging your leg behind you,” Brawn warned, staying close as Huffer faltered, his face screwing up in distress. “You’re going to set it that way.”

“My knee hurts,” Huffer whined, glancing despondently at his leader. “Neither of us should be walking yet.”

Upon following Huffer’s optics, Brawn noticed that somewhere along the line he had unconsciously pressed a hand against his midsection, as though the energon the medics had given him might leak out through the wound Cardsharp had given him, despite how well it was bandaged. He chuckled sheepishly and received a look that was even _more_ mournful, so he acquiesced and sank onto the closest bench. Huffer dropped beside him, venting sluggishly.

What a pair they were, to be put down by this. Huffer had a reason—from what Brawn had judged of his wounds, he’d been _tortured_ —but somehow watching him be in pain made Brawn feel worse. Maybe it was him mentally creating a reason to sympathize. Huffer hadn’t told him everything that had happened, so he could only theorize and that stirred up Brawn’s anger, which was no longer necessary, so he tried not to think about it.

Huffer seemed to sense what he was pondering and Brawn took advantage of it, sliding closer and coaxing, “Talk to me.” It was a simple request; again he felt a pang of guilt for never noticing Huffer’s cues for it in the past.

“I…” Huffer shifted slightly and drew in his vents. “I was going to kill him. I didn’t have any hesitation, Brawn; I was _going_ to kill him. Just thinking of what he did to you—”

“Hey,” Brawn interrupted, internally kicking himself for it but continuing anyway, “I got something better out of what he did, didn’t I? You and Gears and…” He wasn’t sure how he was going to finish that sentence, so he fumbled out, “Well…maybe more sometime.”

Huffer swallowed audibly, fiddling with the supporting frame around his leg. “B-But I don’t want to be like him. Brawn, I don’t want _any_ of us to be like him and—and I didn’t know I could be so _angry_ in all my life, I wanted to kill him, he did such t-terrible things to you and I wished I could do worse things to him! And then Gears—oh, Gears! I made Gears kill him—”

“You did not!” Brawn cut in again, sure of himself this time. “Did you put his hand on the trigger? If anyone is to blame here, it’s me. He did it for me.”

Huffer peeked up at him, optics glassy with dismay. “N-No, it wasn’t you…”

“And it wasn’t you,” Brawn finished sternly. “Neither of us were anywhere near him, neither of us tried to affect what he chose. Gears just did it and he did it willingly.”

“I know, Brawn…and that’s what scares me.” The words were barely a whisper, but the hopelessness in them was frankly alarming.

Working an arm around Huffer’s slumping shoulders, unhappy about the malleability of his armor, Brawn considered what he could say as a comfort, but presently he couldn’t think of anything. Instead, after a few minutes of silence, he commented, “If we didn’t know Gears would ever put us first, we do now.” His words were answered with the smooth purr of his friend’s systems winding down in deeper recharge and Brawn decided he wasn’t too motivated to disturb him for the walk back to the room. Huffer may be too exhausted to talk now, but later Brawn was going to make up for lost time. He had to.

When they did eventually get back to the room, Brawn found Windcharger had returned and he was looking a bit tenser than before. He didn’t have much time to think about it, as he had to make sure Huffer could get settled comfortably in his berth without jostling his leg too badly. As he turned, he found a hand extended to him, offering a rust stick.

“Every time we bump into each other, I forget to give you this,” Rusty announced as greeting. Brawn huffed and shoved the rust stick between his teeth as he grinned.

“My question is _how_ we bump into each other.”

“Well, I can’t help myself! Our pace-mates must be magnetic,” Rusty joked. “One of mine is on the force. He heard quite the buzz around the station about some mischief your pace caused.” His smile faltered slightly as he glanced past Brawn at Huffer. “Is your trouble the reason he wasn’t with you when we last met?”

Shifting his weight, Brawn nodded, sobering. “He’ll be okay. I’m gonna keep ’em close, all of them.”

 _Why did I say ‘all’ and not ‘both’…?_ he wondered uncomfortably. It had been awhile since he thought about it, but he was feeling that guilty discontent again, the one which urged him to find a **trilitare**. He couldn’t, not when they were all recovering from this. _Later. Later I’ll talk with Huffer about it,_ he decided as Rusty moved toward Gears and Polevault.

“I’ve never had a proper introduction with you,” he remarked, shaking Gears’ hand firmly and then inclining his helm for Polevault. “A pleasure, Sir and Madam. I’m Rusty.”

“Interesting name,” Polevault remarked with the first smile Brawn could remember seeing from her. Rusty returned it, not at all insulted.

“It was made out of affection, madam. Rust stick?” he offered. Brawn peeked at Gears, whose eyebrows were slowly rising curiously as he watched.

“No, thank you, and you don’t have to call me madam,” she assured him. “I was a construction worker.”

“And…why would that change my mind?” he inquired, sounding honestly puzzled. She laughed a bit hesitantly, but before she could answer, a large shadow loomed in the doorway.

“Hello, all,” the **verriese** addressed the room’s entirety, keeping his tone respectful. “I’m Lieutenant Prowl of Praxus. I’m sure you know of Harness, your sector’s police chief.”

Harness moved past the tall mech, scanning each of the civilians. “Which of you is Windcharger?” he asked curtly.

“That’s me,” Windcharger piped up solemnly, rising from his chair by Gears’ berth. Gears fidgeted so he sat further upright, twisting his thermal tarp in his hands as though he wanted to intervene but was resisting. Windcharger gave him a grateful look and then moved toward Harness, lifting his hands and making the chief tense slightly, but Windcharger made no move against him.

“Wh-What’s going on?” Huffer demanded.

Harness ignored the question, shoving Windcharger’s hands into a pair of stasis cuffs. “Windcharger of the…”

“Solus,” Windcharger supplied impassively, startling Brawn. “I was sparked in Solus.”

“Windcharger of the Solus sector,” Harness began again, “I’m arresting you for the destruction of the Nexus Archive and the murder of thirteen citizens…”

“Excuse me? Chief, what the _frag_ are you talking about?!” Brawn gasped, backing up until his lower back hit Huffer’s berth. His One clutched his arm, but if it was to steady him or for his own support Brawn didn’t know. He stared at Windcharger with wide optics, the performer meeting his gaze steadily.

Uneasy, Rusty grabbed Polevault, currently trembling in fury, and steered her out, muttering, “We’re going to get some energon, alright? Ex-vent, ex-vent, that’s it…”

“Windcharger?” Huffer whispered in disbelief, earning a string of sobbing from the mech as Harness read rights and pulled him out of the room. Brawn made an abortive pursuit, unsure of what he might do if he did catch up, and then the **verriese** , Prowl, intervened by maneuvering into his path.

“Stop,” Prowl ordered. Though the word was gentle, Brawn glowered up at him and the Praxian added, “He needs to face what he’s done.”

“Where are you taking him?” Gears questioned before Brawn could. Brawn spun around to stare at him, finding none of the shock and anger he might have felt. Gears radiated simple sadness, twisting the tarp further, almost fretfully.

“He’ll be facing stasis,” Prowl stated. “That’s how you imprison criminals in your city, yes? He’s likely to spend several diuns there, but the trial might swing in his favor if his shame is honest.” With that he swept out, leaving the three pace-mates to stare numbly at the empty doorway.

 

* * *

**Seven Diuns Later**

* * *

“Brawn…are you awake?”

Brawn pried open his optics, shifting slowly so he was on his back rather than his side. “Course I am,” he mumbled. “What’s wrong?”

Huffer scooted slightly closer, shoving an arm under his helm to support it as he murmured, “Do you hear it? He’s marching again.”

Sighing deeply, Brawn propped himself up on one elbow, seeking out Huffer’s optics, which were fixed on him trustingly. _They_ had been in a better place, at least. Though Huffer’s emotional state…still needed some work, they’d made great physical recovery, their arguments were fewer, and their conversations were one of Brawn’s favorite parts of the routine. He knew Huffer felt the same; it staved off the bouts of panic and depression, of which Brawn had at last become aware.

Gears, however, had been on a steep decline in more ways than one. Ever since they had gotten out of the hospital, he had been more snappish and hurtful than ever, but Huffer had prevented Brawn from strangling him.

“It’s coming from something different,” he told him calmly, holding him back from the separate berthroom with ease. “There’s something causing it, we just have to figure out what it is.”

No amount of brainstorming had helped them do that and it had finally reached this point: Gears wasn’t recharging and neither were they. That meant it needed to be dealt with. Brawn patted Huffer’s shoulder and rose, urging him to stay where he was. Huffer looked as though he were going to protest, but Brawn gave him a certain look which silenced him.

“Gears!” he called sharply, causing the rapid steps across the room to halt.

“What?” his **sequein** barked back.

“What, indeed,” Brawn muttered snidely before banging twice on the door. “Let me in,” he ordered. “We need to talk, I’m not going to wait anymore!”

There was a long pause and then the door slid open, revealing the glaring mech within. Brawn shouldered past Gears into the room, taking in the scattered data pads and the rumpled recharge slab before pivoting to face Gears as the door slid closed, folding his arms.

“This needs to stop,” he announced. “If you need to see a medic about your problems recharging, we can arrange it, but—”

“I have a whole list of problems!” Gears exclaimed angrily, jabbing a finger at the data pads. “I have problems recharging, fueling, even—even thinking! I can’t _focus!_ My optics won’t stop _leaking_ and I don’t know why! And you’ve been ignoring it completely!”

“Because I’ve been too focused on your complaining!” Brawn shot back. “You’re griping and groaning more often than you _blink_ now and don’t you dare tell me I’m exaggerating! We can hear you from the front room; we can barely hear each other!”

“Good!”

Brawn couldn’t help but falter a step at the word. “Wh-What? What do you mean, _good?_ ”

“You’re not supposed to—to—you’re too—for the love of Primus!” Gears screeched, pouncing forward and shaking Brawn’s shoulders to the best of his ability. “Why are you so _content?!_ ”

Shrugging him off, Brawn waved several fingers in his face. “Let me count: I’m alive, my pace is alive, an Unraveler is dead, the Archive’s being rebuilt! Why wouldn’t we be content?!”

“But I’ve been working so hard!” Gears lamented, suddenly seeming lose the strength in his legs as he slumped against the wall, looking thoroughly defeated. “I’ve been working harder than ever and you’re _still_ in danger.”

“In danger?” Brawn echoed incredulously. “In danger of what? What’s the danger?!”

“ _Happiness_ ,” Gears spat, shuddering at the word.

There was a difficult pause. Brawn shuffled slightly closer, pressing a hand against Gears’ chest and ignoring how he flinched. “Gears…” he began tentatively, “what have you done?”

“I’ve done my best,” Gears murmured. “I—I just can’t do it. I’m trying to protect you, cos I _know_ what _happiness_ can do, but you…you still…” Even in the dark Brawn could see him bow his helm dejectedly. “You’re still managing it, no matter how I try to stop you, and I don’t know what else to do.” Pushing Brawn’s hand away, he began walking the lengths of the room again, crying, “And all of these problems with me! I don’t know how to fix them! I can’t—I don’t function!”

“Gears,” Brawn growled sternly, moving forward and latching onto his arm; watching him walk was making _him_ restless. “It’s because you’re unhappy.”

“I’m supposed to be and so are you!”

“No, you’re not!” Brawn argued. “A pace is supposed to bring Culumexians closer together for one reason: happiness. What you lived with, it wasn’t happiness. Real happiness isn’t something to be afraid of, but you don’t know that. You haven’t let yourself have it and neither has the circuit card.”

“Is it malfunctioning?” Gears gasped. “I need to add that to the list; we need a medic we can trust with it!”

“No, it’s doing exactly what’s it meant to,” Brawn spoke over him. “It’s making you miss a friend! You miss Windcharger, Gears, and if _you’re_ not functioning right, the _pace_ isn’t functioning right, which means we _need_ him!”

Gears stopped struggling against his grip almost instantly, which only served to prove Brawn’s point further. For the first time that Brawn could remember in the past seven diuns, Gears’ EM field held hope, but it was hesitant. “He’s in stasis,” he reminded Brawn cautiously, just as unsure of what he’d said as Brawn himself was.

“Yeh, I know.”

“He’s a criminal.”

“Yeh, I know,” Brawn repeated. “But if we’re going by public opinion, so are you. So am I. But I know you’ve been keeping up on his case. Charger’s due to get out soon, right?”

Gears nodded jerkily. “The Praxian got him a deal: ten diuns in stasis, seventy vorns of community service, and all credits he earns for the next twenty vorns go to the bereaved.”

“So he’ll need a home,” Huffer murmured, catching their attention. He must have slipped in somewhere during their conversation, but Gears didn’t seem ready to accept what he had said.

“You don’t even know him!” he insisted, ironically.

“When we formed this pace, we barely knew each other,” Huffer reminded him. “We barely knew _you_. And from what I have heard of him, he sounds like a mech with a good spark. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be standing here.”

Brawn felt that tinge of respect he’d had for Windcharger seven diuns ago quickly rekindle at the words. “Besides,” he concluded, “if no one else is going to do it…we need to have him where we can keep an optic on him.”

Gears looked between them for a long minute, which stretched into two and then three. Then he released all of his vents and ducked his helm to hide a bare glimmer of a smile. Huffer glanced at Brawn, who nodded approvingly.

 _I saw it too_.

In a way, he couldn’t believe they were actually intending to do this. In another way, he certainly could.


	25. Epilogue

When Windcharger emerged from stasis, he expected to be alone. He expected to step out of his stasis pod to a room empty of anyone other than his guards. After ten diuns of trying to move past what had happened to the Nexus Archive, it wouldn’t be any surprise that no one would care for the mech who had leveled it. The troupe would be in stasis for quite a long time yet.

He found exactly what he expected, but received something of a surprise when he was released into the front room. There was the pace of three, with changed faces and demeanors, despite the fact that it seemed like he’d seen them only yesterday. The shame flooded back as he was shoved at them with his open stasis cuffs tucked under his arm—something of a bitter keepsake—and he barely listened to what they were saying as he hurried out of the stasis center. He was taken up with questions: why had they waited for him? Why did they care? He had made up his mind that he was going to his pod, to stash himself away and collect his thoughts.

Ten diuns could change many things, as could mere minutes. Windcharger turned from a desperate mission to a desperate hopelessness as he stared at the ruins of his pod. Society had not been kind to the memory of him left out in the open; nothing was left.

Just before he had been imprisoned, Windcharger had created a backup plan. He’d known stasis awaited him and he was prepared for homelessness and isolation when he returned to the living world. There was one place that would accept anyone with open arms, no matter their status or affiliations or past.

The pace had fallen silent and he finally turned to address them. “I’m going to NET,” he announced. “They’ve always wanted me.”

Windcharger would never have expected that others’ need to save might be just as powerful as his shame. Gears was on him in an instant, rattling him fiercely. “They’ll never have you! None of my pace-mates will _ever_ go through what I did. No one should.”

“I don’t intend to mention any of you; you won’t be in danger of that,” Windcharger protested weakly.

“That’s not what he means. Haven’t you been listening? Be my **trilitare** ,” Brawn ordered, rather than asked. “There’s no act you need to put on for us.”

Perhaps this was a stasis dream, the dazed performer decided as he was led away from the waste of his past life. Whatever it was, it might go on to prove even a condemned mech could be shown mercy and love. Fleetingly he considered proposing this theory to the three mechs offering it, but he didn’t want to be overly mushy.

 _Besides,_ he mused wryly, _it probably wouldn’t hold any weight with them_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If only you knew, Windcharger ;)
> 
> The End!
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed "With Healing On Its Wings" as much as I've enjoyed writing it! It's been a whirlwind, but a pleasure. Thanks to all of my faithful commenters; you make my day. 
> 
> Dear readers, you and the pace will need to strap in. Cliffjumper's coming through...


End file.
